Looking around at those who had already arrived and were seated, awaiting Creedus to begin, Corred looked for the men he had met the day before. Without much trouble he spotted Bjorn, Bernd and Rickert, but he did not see Remiel. Giving it no more thought, Corred gave his attention to his grandfather as he took the floor.
Upwards of one hundred men, young and old, faced the main floor giving their attention now to one man who stood at the center. With his left hand propped on the hilt of his sword Creedus looked around him, nodding with satisfaction. A smile came across his face, showing through his long beard. For a moment the silence continued as recognition was given simply for the fact that hope in the Promise lived on. Each man looked at the other, and whether he knew him or not, he beheld a brother.
“Welcome to Wellman, brothers of the Promise.” Creedus held out his hands and took yet another good look at them all, allowing a longer look at Corred. “Though you did not know the nature of my call, you came all the same, leaving what you held dear to answer. Much has taken place in the last few days, all of which we must address here, tonight. Events as of late have been troubling.”
Creedus paused before sharing the worst of it. “Pedrig, Lord Wellman’s eldest son, has been slain by an enemy scout.” There was a slight stir among the few who had not yet heard, having only just arrived in Wellman. “With the heroics of some of the brothers here in Wellman, greater loss was averted. Lord Wellman’s young son, Tristan, and oldest daughter, Olwen, were taken captive in the same hour. After a day’s chase and the sacrifice of a man’s life, they were saved.”
There settled over the hall a deafening silence. The beat of a heart could be heard. Every eye and ear gave full attention to Creedus as a tear fell freely down his cheek.
“Reed, a son of the family of Bryn, has gone to be with his fathers.” With these words, he nodded to Einar who came out from the crowd, carrying a sword in front of him. Holding the sheath, he extended the hilt to Creedus who drew it slowly and held it up for all to see.
Corred swallowed the lump in his throat. Across the room men were solemn, not for fear or cowardice but for respect and admiration. Some of them beheld the sword of a man who had been a great warrior before they were even born. Others who had known him well, remembered him with tears, unashamed.
“Though his body returns to the dust, his sword shall not rust.” With a renewed gleam in his eye, he looked them over. “Which of you will carry this man’s sword?”
There was a moment of hesitation as most were slow to assume so great an honor. It was not common for such a question to be posed; a great warrior’s sword could not simply be claimed as if it were the spoils of war.
Creedus looked around, disappointed at the lack of response. “His sword must go on to fight for another’s hope as sure as his legacy will live. Who will take it?”
Before he could finish speaking, a man from the darkest corner of the room stepped forward. His hood was thrown back revealing his face in the dim glow of the lanterns. He had a gentle expression but the hair on his chin and a heavy brow gave him the rough look of a man not to be trifled with. Coming before Creedus he bowed a knee in respect. “I did not know this man, but I will honor him by carrying his sword.” His voice was gruff but soft.
“Please, rise. You have made known your desire to be a warrior of the Promise. May you be honored and become as great a warrior.”
Looking up at Creedus, the man took every word to heart.
Creedus returned Reed’s sword into its sheath carefully. He nodded to Einar, who then gave it to the man.
“What is your name?” Creedus asked him.
“Fenton,” he replied with a slight bow.
“Fenton,” Creedus said, returning a bow of respect, “add this to the sword you already carry. In the days ahead, you will need both.”
The man smiled, feeling the weapon’s weight as he returned to his seat.
Creedus’ words hung in the air as he resumed his pose in the midst of the floor and took a few paces before continuing. “Mornoc’s scouts have been busy. A week ago I saw what I thought to be a specter fly by my window in the night. Its pale face shone in the moonlight for only a moment, and then it vanished. I thought it to be a dream. I now know that it was not. They have been among us, in our streets, on our very doorsteps. I do not know for how long or why, but lanterns have gone missing here in Wellman. I fear that it is not the mischievous activity of a few, but the planned effort of many, and a forewarning of war.”
The room stirred. Not even rumors of war had been heard for so long that the reality of it seemed unreasonable, if not hasty.
Creedus quickly continued, “I have always feared our enemy for many reasons, but above them all, I fear him because he will stop at nothing to subject us to his will. He is so determined to do so that he would even remain silent to accomplish his purpose, for he knows that his very presence reminds us of the truth from our past. He was not the only one banished from Amilum. Our great father, Homsoloc was also banished, but . . .” Creedus shook his finger in the air, “he was banished with the hope of redemption. The writings of our fathers, kept safe by faithful men in Shole tell the Story, and many of us know it by heart. Mornoc wants this to be forgotten and taken for granted. If his silence can accomplish this, he would stay even his bloodthirsty hand to see it happen.” Creedus began pacing as he continued, “Brothers, a serpent that waits for its prey to draw near may be silent, but he is not idle. He watches. He harbors his malice. He prepares to strike.” He lowered his voice. “Mornoc is that serpent.”
There were some words among the men, both in agreement and disagreement. But before any arguments could take course, someone stood up from among the crowd and advanced to the middle to join Creedus. It was Bjorn.
“Brothers, if I may have a word,” he said, looking to his superior for permission.
“Go ahead, Bjorn,” Creedus said. Giving the floor to another, he sat down between Corred and Einar.
Bjorn felt the light growth on his face thoughtfully before addressing the group. “I was approached by a good friend of mine the same hour that I received the summons to this gathering. He came to me distressed, and for good reason.” Turning toward the bench he had just left, he extended his hand. “Bernd, would you show them what you showed me?”
Without hesitation Bernd joined Bjorn on the floor with an axe in his hand. Holding it up he said, “This is an axe from a soldier of Mornoc. My two brothers and I were attacked by this soldier in the plains by the foothills of Mount Elm, before the Altus Mountains. It is a new weapon, unworn and recently sharpened.”
Again a stir of responses among the Véran filled the hall.
Bernd continued, raising his voice. “We were ambushed as we slept. All three of us escaped with our lives. We left his dead body lying in the field as we fled.” Bernd lowered the weapon as he did his voice. “I have never before seen sign of a soldier in the foothills, and now I have been attacked. I share the fears of our leader.”
“As do I,” Bjorn added. He patted Bernd on the shoulder as he returned to his seat. Bjorn continued. “Brother Bernd failed to mention one thing. At the base of that battle axe is engraved the name of one of the four: Hildan.”
The very name brought an end to continuing conversations and arguments alike.
“If one of the four has a soldier who would attack so readily on the northern plains, we have just concern and must take action.” Bjorn spoke confidently about these things.
Another of the group stood. “There was only one soldier?” he asked with slight contempt. “Mornoc’s men do not spare the use of force when they mean to kill.”
Bjorn responded quickly. “That is a point that must be considered. If Mornoc musters his strength for war, then he would not put it on display before its time. This soldier was no doubt expected to be successful in his attack to ensure the secrecy of his regiment.”
There were some murmurs and a request to see the axe. Bernd freely passed the wea
pon around at the behest of those skeptics who argued the legitimacy of the account.
“Brothers, I have given account of my post in the Northern Villages.” Bjorn returned to his seat, giving the floor back to Creedus.
“Who else has a report to give of his post?” Creedus asked, opening the floor. “Stand and give account where you are.”
Immediately a man stood from the back of the room. It was Fenton, now with Reed’s sword also hanging from his belt. His countenance was now one of deep concern. “I would like to give account of my post in the eastern city of Port.” As the room quieted he began, “Those who remain true to the Promise in Port are treated as the local fools. Though our land is fertile and we have grown into a city of commerce and great wealth, our people have regressed. The hearts of our leaders have clearly been led astray by their own success. There is evidence of council from within the Court of Lords that openly opposes all committed to the Promise. We are more than derided. If ever there were a time when Mornoc would strike our city, it is now. We are like a harvest ripe for picking.” His voice grew louder with these last words. “As I traveled here, I was followed by a rider until I passed Renken. I do not know who it was and I thought it best not to confront him. He never revealed himself and I do not think he knew of my destination. But I am known as a member of the Véran in Port, and I have been watched. I beseech you all to give great consideration to what must be done to determine our enemy’s intentions before it is too late.” With that he sat down.
A few of the men to his right and left spoke words of encouragement, openly showing their respect for his steadfast devotion in the face of contempt. They were a brotherhood, regardless of whether they agreed on anything other than the Promise itself.
Einar stood next. “Brothers, our times are becoming increasingly ruled by the pursuit of wealth and power, not conviction. As a member of the Véran in Renken, I too have seen the drift of our leaders from the foundation on which we built our towns and cities. Lord Raven as well has shown that he is satisfied to merely live out his life in these Lowlands and forget the past and the Promise. I have reason to believe that there is darker councel behind it. There is a man that attends his guard who clearly does not belong. If we, who do not believe in coincidence, think that this is not some work of our enemy, we deceive ourselves. I do not know of the depth of his workings, for I admit I too have grown comfortable in peace. But as Fenton has just stated, we have not been vigilant enough. If we are to send men to seek our enemy out, I will go. My sword is sharp and my hope is fixed. I respect his strength, but I do not fear him. I would rather face him on my terms.”
Some agreed whole heartedly with Einar’s impassioned speech, but most remained unmoved. They nodded, acknowledging the accounts, but they dismissed the severity of the implications.
Corred rose to his feet. His spine shivered with pride as he began. “Brothers, I have an account of my post at Oak Knoll.”
A gentleman to his right said aloud, “Speak up, son,” and a wave of encouragement followed. Beads of sweat formed on Corred’s forehead under the light of the chandelier above.
“Four nights prior to this, in the woods between Oak Knoll and Hill Top, I was hunted and attacked by a scout as I returned home. Along the path that I have run since I was a boy, he waited to take my life. At the last moment, he gave himself away, providing me with the chance to make an escape. I was hard pressed to stay ahead of him as he ran me down and narrowly missed me with his spear, cutting my shoulder. The next morning the same spear was driven into my front step, my blood still on its blade, and my lantern was gone.”
He had their attention in full. Realizing this fact stunned him, but far more than that, it energized him.
“Our enemy has grown bold. We have posed no threat to him. Is it not our destruction that he has planned since the day he was condemned? He has no purpose apart from it. My grandfather and I have been marked. Either we live to see the day of a champion from the West or we hold our enemy to an account for his wicked ways. Neither has taken place.” Corred shifted his weight nervously. “My whole life I have dreamed of using my sword; I have dreamed of living up to my name. If we wait for Mornoc to strike first, we have played into his grip. If we are to take action, I also will go.” He quickly sat down.
Corred received even more approval than Einar had. Boyd and Beathan patted him on the back from behind. “Thank you, friends,” Corred replied quietly. His heart was racing. If the last two days had given him confidence that he too could be as great a man as his grandfather, worthy of carrying the Sword, this did even more. He had spoken, and men he admired had cheered.
Creedus once again took the floor. “Brothers, we have heard these accounts and need to hear no more. Whether our enemy is gathering in strength or cowering in caves, we must seek him out. If we do not, he will, as in these events, come to us. Will we wait for him to strike? Will we wait for him to snuff out our lights and harm our families?”
The group’s response as a whole was not what Creedus had hoped for. Even after the accounts that they heard, most were timid in their response, revealing their lack of will for action. Well-spoken words had been more easily accepted. Indeed it seemed that only those who had already encountered the enemy also clenched their fists.
Creedus led them anyway. “Who will work with me to organize our own scouting expeditions, to find our enemy’s whereabouts and determine his strength? If he intends to strike again, we must be ready for him, or more innocent people will die.”
Another elderly gentleman on the opposite side of the room stood to give response. He was not much younger than Creedus, but he did not appear as fit for battle. His belt hung below his protruding belly, and his shoulders were rounded from years of resting on past accomplishment.
“Brothers, and especially those who have shared their concerns of the movements of the enemy, I would like to give an account that has not yet been heard.”
The room quieted down to give the floor to yet another. Creedus likewise returned to his seat with a look of knowing what was coming.
“It has been many years since the horror of war has raked our lands. Living within sight of the Black Mountain, and the waste that surrounds, I am one who is reminded everyday of the presence of evil. And so, I do not seek to minimize the occurrence of it. But . . .” Pausing, the gentleman shifted his weight, not in a manner of being nervous, but as if to set his feet. “If one man is stung by a hornet, should he expect his neighbor to go looking for the nest, risking the same sting for himself?”
“More than one man has been stung, brother Loyde,” Creedus audibly replied.
As if expecting the answer, and to hear it from Creedus, Loyde continued, addressing the rest of the gathering. “And how many stings does it take to require that the nest be disturbed?”
As agreement and disagreement arose among them, Loyde raised his voice. “Won’t prodding the bushes with a stick to find the nest only provoke fury; indeed, fury that may not have been in store?”
The jubilation that Corred had felt only moments ago at inspiring the room into fervent response dissipated among the voices of dissent. Feeling cheated, he looked from one man to another, searching for the conviction he thought they all shared. Lastly he looked to Einar, and then Creedus. His own feelings were reflected very clearly on their faces. Corred was not alone in his dismay.
Standing with Loyde, a younger fellow sitting among those from Shole and its surrounding region, joined the conversation. “I understand the stings, and the fear of the nest. But what I believe is more important than winning one side of this gathering to the other, is the realization that the strength of the Véran is one of unity in purpose.” He spoke loudly, holding out his hands to ask for silence at the responses that were given in anticipation of his conclusion. “If we do anything divided, one side or the other will fail in their part.”
“Which is why,” Loyde bellowed, building his argument off of the younger man’s wisdom, “an organized of
fensive of any kind is to beat the bushes with a stick, at the expense of our neighbors.”
Like a tide, the room began to turn in Loyde’s direction.
Creedus shifted in his seat angrily, but held his tongue. He knew that consensus could not be shouted into existence, and an offensive could not be a split decision. It was true, that a force divided would never succeed.
“Brothers, brothers,” Loyde continued, feeling that his persuasion was quickly winning the evening, “my children and grandchildren have not known war. Before tonight, none of us had cause to believe that they might. In the western Lowlands, that is still the case. And having seen war . . .” Loyde slowed down, letting his years and wisdom weigh heavily on the men around him, “I will refuse to do anything to jeopardize our present peace.”
“What of Lord Wellman’s son?” a voice called out. “His death is not peace.”
“I will mourn him, as will you,” Loyde very quickly replied. “But while I do so, I will not do anything to bring similar loss to my family.” He said it with deep emotion. “War in the Lowlands means certain desolation of the villages near the Black Mountain. Without fail, we never escape Mornoc’s fury and fire. If Wellman is in danger,” Loyde said carefully, “Wellman is right to exercise extra caution to protect itself. But in so doing, I beg you not to stir the hornets’ nest throughout the land.” With that he held up his hands and sat down.
Once the room had been taken by debate for a while, Creedus stood and took the middle of the floor to bring the meeting back to attention. After a few turns, waiting for everyone to acknowledge his presence again, Creedus nodded in Loyde’s direction. “Thank you, Loyde for your sincere words.”
Knowing his stand was not unanimously supported, Creedus quickly declared the compromise. “Thank you all for your thoughts, your reports, and your concerns. Thank you, most of all, for being men of conviction and caring. As stated earlier, and it is true, we cannot take offensive action unless we are undivided in it.”
The Reaper's Seed: The Sword and the Promise (Book 1) Page 15