“This is proving to be a very interesting morning,” Bjorn remarked as he retreated inside. “It has been some time since Creedus summoned us to Wellman.”
The letter was folded, but not sealed, as if prepared in great haste. Returning to the light of the fire to read it, Bjorn held it away from his face to focus on its contents.
Bernd waited silently.
Bjorn mumbled something to himself. Looking at Bernd he noticed his wounded arm. “It appears that you’re not the only one who’s had a brush with the enemy.” Bjorn returned to the letter and read aloud.
“To all who remain faithful to the Promise, now is the time for you to prove your faithfulness. Come to Wellman, giving word to no one of the nature of your travel, save those you can trust with your life. When you arrive, do not make yourself known, for our enemy has been active and is watching.
Bring full account of your post and the movement of our enemy, thought by some to be silent, known by others to be gathering strength in this very hour. We will meet on the night of the third day. Come quickly.”
Bernd’s mouth was open, but he was speechless.
“Will you come with me?” Bjorn asked. “You have testimony to give that Creedus and many others need to hear.” Bjorn refolded the paper, and after a slight pause tossed it into the flames. “I am leaving as soon as I can pack sufficiently. It is a night and a hard day’s ride to Wellman.”
Bernd took a deep breath. “I will. I will come and give an account. But afford me some time to leave it off with my family. They have missed me for most of this past month, and I dare not leave again without seeing them.”
Bjorn shook his head in agreement. “Go. I will wait for you, but do not linger.”
Bernd rushed out and ran back up the street to where he had left his brothers tending the horses.
There was a sober urgency in his voice as he gave them news of his summons.
As Bernd ran inside to tell his wife and children, the echo of the messenger’s gallop thundered on. Another letter was dropped off to a member of the Véran, and for another family, the world changed.
* * * * *
Returning to the base of Mount Elm, a soldier of Hildan rode alone, leading a second hargus with the form of a fallen soldier as its burden, a single arrow protruding from its shoulder. His comrade’s failed attempt to kill the three horsemen the night before had become apparent when he did not return by sunrise. The dead soldier’s spear had been recovered but his ax was gone. The surviving soldier would now have to report the failure of carrying out his captain’s order, a duty that promised wrath.
Riding around the base of Mount Elm, the soldier began to climb. Taking a well worn trail, he fell in with several other soldiers, all coming from the eastern regions of the Altus Mountains. They eyed his load curiously, wondering what had happened, but declined to ask questions when they saw his bitter scowl.
After several miles of thinning forest, the group rounded the northern face and followed the same trail in a steeper switchback ascent. To the north, the fullness of the Altus Mountains slowly came into view. Like an immense forest of jagged cones rising into the sky, they were by far the largest mountains in the Lowlands. Losing their foliage gradually, each individual mountain began as a teeming forest and rose from there to become a lifeless rocky point crested with ice and snow. For as far as the eye could see, they stood like a throng of giants, all equally separated by expansive valleys lined with rivers and forests of immense evergreens. Everything was larger, the trees were taller and the world itself seemed to double in size.
As the soldiers climbed higher, bringing more of this world into view, trees gave way to grass and brush which covered its slopes in green, not yet shriveled from the first winter frosts that had begun to fall at night. A hedgehog the size of a dog scurried out of their way, eating his last few meals before entering his burrow, not to emerge until spring.
Passing several cave entrances along the trail, the soldiers chose a specific entrance higher on the mountain. It afforded room enough for several riders to enter at once and still more to ensure that the hargus were not wary of their surroundings; they were animals to be dealt with cautiously, and feared for their strength.
The rocky passageway immediately branched into several tunnels. Following the first of these to the left, the soldiers kept to the contour of the mountain, until they reached a place where it opened into a vast cavern. It was a space filled with crudely constructed stables for the hargus and plenty of soldiers to tend to them. So as to keep the animals healthy and content while penned up, there were multiple holes cut into the cave walls high above, admitting the light of the sun. The rock floor was coated with straw to aid in cleaning, and there were many troughs for water and feed lining the stables.
Dismounting, the soldier who had returned from the plains handed his own mount to one of the soldiers working the stables. Turning to another he gave orders concerning his fallen comrade. “See to it that this animal is reassigned immediately and get rid of the body before it begins to smell.” Reaching up, he pulled the dead man’s cloak aside and snapped the end of the arrow off that had ended his life. Without another word the soldier marched out of the cavern and back to the main tunnel where he followed it deeper into the mountain. Grumbling, he braced himself for what wrath his report might bring.
Using the spear as a walking staff, he carefully examined the craftsmanship of the arrow’s fletching under the light of the lanterns that lined the cave walls. The further into the mountain the soldier traveled, the less the air moved, becoming heavy and damp. It was not long before he came to a particular tunnel over which was carved the name “Hildan.” There he paused to lean the spear against the rock wall, take a deep breath, straighten to his full height, and enter.
The tunnel quickly opened up into a larger room, where at the center Hildan and several of his guard were dining at a monstrous wooden table. The soldier entered with arrow in hand and walked around the table to where Hildan sat at the head.
Hildan lowered his meat back to his plate. “Why have you returned alone?” he asked.
“The horsemen were more than we expected, my lord.” Holding up the arrow, he avoided the specifics of what had happened. “Apparently one of them was an archer, capable of great precision in the dark.” There was a bitter sarcasm in his voice.
Hildan did not reply immediately. He looked around at the members of his guard to read their reactions. Turning again to his visitor, he asked. “What of the horsemen? Do the Northern Villages now know that we are here, in the foothills?” He leaned in on his elbows. His usually cold stare had already begun to flush with a horrible rage.
“It is unlikely, my lord.” He chose not to speak of the missing axe. “They fled, and I was sure to gather any evidence that might suggest such a thing. Thieves will be credited for the act. I am sure– ”
BOOM! Hildan slammed his fists on the table, shaking its contents violently. “For your sake I hope that is true.” Hildan replied quickly. Rising to his feet he looked down at his soldier with a clenched jaw.
The soldier took a step back and braced himself.
Hildan continued. “If I find that our presence is now known on account of your failure, I will not wait for the day of battle to wield my axe.” He breathed heavily, each breath, ready to deal a death blow, but he stayed his hand.
The soldier swallowed hard and looked directly ahead, unable to make eye contact with his captain. Each second that passed filled him with greater dread.
“Get out!” Hildan growled.
The soldier took a step back, grimacing at the intensity of his captain’s malice.
Having shaken the hall with his voice, Hildan promptly returned to eating, tearing his food as he cursed through his teeth.
Quickly leaving the room and continuing back down the tunnel, the soldier snapped the arrow in half with his fingers and tossed it on the ground. Feeling his neck, just to make sure it was still there, he returned to the st
ables and to his duties.
* * * * *
The cave walls of Casimir were glowing bright, and the movements of his army were beginning to show. As a scout left for one mission, so another returned, saluting his comrade with a raised spear in one hand and a lantern in the other.
Casimir walked the feasting hall daily, inquiring after each mission and the results, in eager expectation of the day he would wield his club openly. Selcor was often the object of his focus. Casimir had been skillfully tending to his young soldier’s heart, training him for treachery yet to be carried out. Killing Lord Wellman’s eldest son was just the beginning. Casimir had plans for Selcor. Creedus was his high prize and he had already come close.
Selcor remained in the hall, letting his wound heal to a point where he could once again attack the Head of the Véran and take the Sword of Homsoloc. With this deed accomplished, the whole of Mornoc’s forces would be unleashed. And so the center of the struggle lay in Wellman: the fading strength of an aged man pitted against the hatred of a traitorous youth, trained solely to strike at the heart of hope.
At the same time, unknown to Casimir, the heads of Véran were gathering. Men were traveling to Wellman as they did every day, but among them were these uncelebrated warriors and warriors to be, representatives of every part of the Low Lands. They arrived unannounced, blending in with the town until the following night when they would gather at the town hall for a council.
* * * * *
Walking briskly away from Lord Raven’s estate, Lowell headed for the busier sections of Renken, closely evaluating the interactions of the people around him. He was not wearing his usual green robe, as he did in Lord Raven’s presence, but instead he dressed like a common man, donning a small cap made of fur which he had bought in the market place weeks ago. With beady eyes he looked this way and that, as if in search of something specific, but it was clear that he had no destination.
Merchants held conversation with wealthy customers, a carriage with several young ladies drove by slowly, two gentlemen argued over a sale, and a group of boys ran through the streets in a dangerous game of tag. It all captured his eye, but none of it held his attention; he was in search of something else and before long, he saw it.
Studying the countenance of a young man who was aimlessly weaving through traffic, Lowell picked up his tracks and tailed him for a while to evaluate his person. The young man was dressed in tattered clothing not fit enough to keep him warm, and he appeared not to have bathed in weeks. His shoes had holes in the toes, and he walked with a slight limp on account of it. His hair was disheveled, his eyes hollow and gaunt, and his arms swung heavily at his sides.
Lowell followed him for a while to see where he would go, keeping far enough behind so as not to raise any suspicion. Deep into the western district they wandered, walking through dirty streets packed by wagons loaded down with goods, crowds of people hovering over some table of produce for sale, meats, bread, and every other necessity. Reaching a section where the most desired form of shelter was no more than a shack with one large room and a door on hinges, the young man that Lowell had been following stopped abruptly on the corner of two narrow streets and crawled into a large slat box that leaned up against the outside wall of a neighboring shanty. Once used for housing chickens or some other livestock, it now served as his home. Inside were several thin blankets and other worthless trinkets that served as possessions.
To any other man, this bum would have been difficult to look at, but for Lowell, he was a gem. Walking right up to the box, he stood in front of it and addressed him. “Sir, you look hungry.”
The young man had just enough strength left from his walk to give Lowell an unwelcome look and tell him how he felt. “Whatya know about it? If ya come to mock me, then ya come to waste yer time. No other soul here knows my hunger, and I don’t care to tell ‘em bout it. They all,” waving his finger around the place, he brought it back to Lowell, “and you can fall over dead fer all I care.” His voice was raspy, tired, and full of bitterness. He finished his speech with a cough.
Lowell reached into his coat and extended a crust of bread and a piece of cheese. “On the contrary, I’ve come to satisfy your hunger and tell you about a better life. So for your sake, I hope I don’t drop dead, or you won’t hear about it.”
The young man’s eyes grew wide, and the frown left his face at the sight of food. He did not accept it at first out of shock and the suspicion that it was a cruel trick, but when Lowell did not withdraw his hand, he reached out and took it. Holding it carefully he stared at it for a moment before slowly beginning to take bites of one and then the other.
Lowell stood there silently, waiting for his new friend to finish eating. Observing the trust that had been established, he broke the silence. “Sir, there is no reason for you to lie here any longer. What are you doing sitting in a box made for animals among people who do not care about you?”
The young man continued to eat and stared at him blankly, as if the question had never even occurred to him.
Lowell folded his arms behind his back and presented the news as if it made perfect sense. “My master can care for your needs if you are willing to honor his rule, and I do not speak of Lord Raven.” Pointing to the food in his hands, he added, “He has far more than that waiting for you if you will only join him in his work.”
The young man swallowed and paused before taking another bite. “Whatya talkin’ about? What master?” No sooner had he asked the question, sincerely wanting the answer, than he stuffed the remaining bread into his mouth.
“His name is not important. What is important is that you are fed, made valuable and respected as you clearly are not here. What is even more important is that my master will soon rule these lands, and if you are not with him, you are against him.” With that Lowell turned to go.
“Wait, wait!” The young man rolled out of his box, calling over a mouthful of food. “Where can I meet him?”
Lowell stopped and turned to face him again. Looking him in the eye with a smirk, he answered quickly. “Meet me tonight, just after sundown, outside of the town on the northern shore. If you come I will have a new coat for you and a full meal. Don’t be late.”
Chapter 11
Corred was restless. The funeral was fresh in his mind, but he did not want to dwell on it. Strolling through the streets, he greeted those citizens that he knew, and received greeting from those that now recognized him from the evening before. Not surprisingly, he found his path taking him toward Lord Wellman’s mansion. Corred’s wandering led him straight toward one of the primary sources of his restlessness. As always, there were servants at work around Lord Wellman’s property, coming to and fro with their errands. Only now, there was a weight of sorrow that covered the mansion. A few of the windows were open, welcoming the fresh morning air in hopes that the life outside would inspire continued life within.
The stable boy, leading a horse around the side of the house, spotted Corred gazing at the windows above. With his horse in tow, he approached Corred tentatively. “Sir, are you one of the men who fought to save my master’s children?”
Corred turned to him as if awakened from a dream, startled by the question. “Yes, I am.”
With a slight bow, the boy humbly paid his respects. “You are very brave. I hope to be like you some day.” He was young, no more than twelve years of age, and only beginning to grow into his hands and feet. Dressed like the other servants, he was not distinct in any way, but he possessed the boldness to approach a man carrying a sword, one whom he knew to be dangerous.
Corred was pleasantly surprised with his forward manner. “What is your name?”
“Andrew, sir. It was my father’s name.”
“Well, Andrew, I count it an honor to meet you,” Corred said, extending his hand.
The young boy beamed with joy at being so kindly received and gave Corred as firm a handshake as he could.
Before Corred could pursue further conversation, he caught a g
limpse of someone in the window above. A young woman with long braids stepped back from the window when he noticed her. Olwen.
Seeing the conversation had come to an abrupt end, Andrew hurried off to complete his tasks, pulling his horse behind him.
Once again, Corred was alone, staring up into the windows, wanting only to catch another glimpse of Olwen, wanting to know she was safe. Out of respect for the grief of Lord Wellman’s family, he resumed his walk through town.
From the back wall of the hall that led to her room, Olwen felt her pulse quicken. A mix of emotions filled her. She watched Corred carefully, keeping just out of sight. As he passed by, she admired his every step. No common man was supposed to catch the eye of a young woman born to royalty. She herself was alarmed at the thought and blushed, bringing back her natural color. But she couldn’t shake the feeling of her hand in his.
She closed her eyes and saw him running toward her, sword in hand, covering the length of the field in seconds. As the cords around her wrists pulled at her very strength, he closed in, sword raised.
She opened her eyes. Though it was not the first time she had seen him, it was how she saw him now. The young man she had talked to several times before, when they were both just children, was no longer an acquaintance. After her grip on hope had lost hold, he had come running to defend her. She felt safe just knowing he was near. Looking down the hall to see if anyone had noticed, Olwen chastised herself for feeling joy in the wake of her brother’s death. But she did. In a mix of painful loss and hopeful love, her tears threatened to spill over.
The Reaper's Seed: The Sword and the Promise (Book 1) Page 12