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

by Jaffrey Clark

  Corred waited for his grandfather to put Loyde back in his place, and call for a renewed, organized vigilance. Moving to the edge of his seat, he waited anxiously for the one who carried the Sword to grab their attention again, and command them.

  “Instead,” Creedus said, “we will take action as we always do, each man at his post. It is true that we are not at war, but I believe we must better prepare ourselves and our people for it. For if it comes,” Creedus said, looking over the room, “our enemy will be the architect of it. We will be the prey in his snare.”

  A sober air filled the hall, as this point was not in the least arguable.

  “Go now,” Creedus concluded, “return, each of you to his home and live differently in light of the attacks and signs of the times that warn us of ever-present evil. Live aware of all that has been shared tonight. Keep your eyes on the Promise, and keep your swords sharp.” Bowing in respect of all who were in attendance, Creedus left the floor and proceeded to greet old friends, and make new ones of the next generation. Despite his evident disappointment, he did not lose the opportunity to encourage increased vigilance on a personal basis. Some stayed to further discuss the events of the night amongst themselves, but many wandered too quickly back out into the dark town.

  Corred looked around, feeling that the meeting had ended too easily. That’s it? No plan of action to find out our enemy? Nothing? He felt the same disappointment he could see in his grandfather’s face. What good was that? He blushed, ashamed that the Véran had become a group of men who had lost sight of the imperative of their calling: to be vigilant not just in title, but in action. Einar’s words about the comfort of men echoed over and over in his head.

  Across the room from Corred, standing just outside of the chandelier’s light, Remiel stood with his arms crossed in front of him. The smile he had been wearing when Corred had met him was gone. Replacing it was a look of serious contemplation as some of the men around him stood and left as silently as they had come. With one last look at Corred, Remiel pulled his hood down over his forehead and filtered out with the rest of the men around him.

  * * * * *

  Thin clouds drifted in front of the moon. The Véran had long since returned to their beds for the night and all was quiet.

  From the edge of the woods, across the fields, Wellman was being watched as it had been for weeks. Unknown and undetected, Casimir’s scouts shifted in the shadows, watching and waiting for the opportune moment to strike; a serpent was indeed harboring its malice.

  Selcor, leading the band of scouts, still had a mission to fulfill. The wound he had sustained from his first attempt was well wrapped and healing. His countenance was one unchanged, of hatred and determination. Letting out a light whistle, Selcor kept his eyes fixed on the edges of the town and the points of light scattered throughout it. When the other four scouts joined him from behind, he gave some last instructions.

  “The old man is all that matters. We have lamps enough to light Casimir’s halls. Creedus has an appointment with our lord, Mornoc.”

  Boldly leading them into the fields, Selcor’s fast steps built into a jog and then became a run. Following a row of grass between the plowed fields, they approached a barn on the outskirts of town, keeping it between them and their target.

  They ran in a tapered row with Selcor at the point like an arrow sent to its target. When he drew a spear from his pouch the others followed his example. When he picked up the speed even more, they kept pace.

  As they reached the first houses, the light of the lanterns cast their shadows against the grass. Without a sound they swiftly flew through the streets.

  Quickly coming to a halt, Selcor approached one of the cabin doors. Stepping aside he waved two of them to the door itself. Carefully, he lifted the guard from the lantern on the front step and set it aside. The lantern’s flame grew taller and brighter in the slight breeze. Selcor licked his fingers and smothered the wick.

  Chapter 13

  Many miles west of Wellman, through the northern regions of the Bryn Mountains, beyond the Plains of Shole, lay the city of Shole itself. The largest of all the cities in the Lowlands, it was also the oldest, built by Homsoloc and his sons. Placed on an immense plateau, it overlooked the region around it for miles in all directions. It was a fortified city, originally built for the sole purpose of defense. Made of stone at its center, it had withstood sieges, fires, and the fiercest weather the Lowlands had ever seen. The rock wall that surrounded the city limits, standing four feet high, had witnessed it all. The architecture of Shole was like that of a large puzzle, as if its builders had more than once considered it incomplete. But with each passing decade it had grown larger, its citizens adding yet another section, slowly filling the plateau. Settlers now also inhabited the region surrounding its soft slopes to the north and the east.

  Still further west, on the opposite side of an expansive valley of wooded terrain stood the Black Mountain. It rose into the sky like a scar on the landscape. Once a flourishing wilderness, the woods immediately surrounding the mountain were now dead and colorless, like a pile of ashes in the midst of a healthy green field. The very mountain itself had died and hardened. On its peak and along its slopes lay the twisted forms of trees, like men left dead on a battlefield.

  At the foot of the Black Mountain there stood a large gate, a lattice of long, sharp spears. For hundreds of years it had remained unchanged, maintaining the dark color of the ore from which it had been forged. Joining together an arching stone wall that ran to the north and south, the gate faced the city of Shole like bared teeth. The wall, standing ten feet tall and five feet thick, curved back toward the Black Mountain in the shape of a crescent, forming a large courtyard of dust, gravel and rock.

  On the other end of the courtyard was a pair of guards, each armed with a large battle-axe, standing watch at the entrance of an enormous cave. They were soldiers of Mornoc set apart for their size and strength to be the guardians of the Black Mountain. They wore no helmet but had full heads of thick black hair pulled back from their eyes and tied behind their heads. A fierce, but stolid expression was written on their faces. The chain mail shirts they wore were impenetrable, heavier and thicker than any known to man. Even so, they seemed more ceremonial than anything, as these soldiers were not likely to lose a fight hand to hand.

  The cave itself had a roughly hewn entrance, but the floor of it cut deep into the heart of the mountain like a well-worn road. Once the mouth of the cave and the light of day were lost from sight, pairs of torches were set in either side of the cave wall at intervals. Despite these lights to lead the way, it was an unearthly, suffocated place.

  Like the main road to a hidden city, smaller tunnels branched off of it, leading to the far recesses of the mountain. Some of these passages were watched by an armed guard while others were merely marked by a lantern.

  As the tunnel continued, in time, it gave way to several sets of stairs carved into the floor, leading to higher ground. At the top of these stairs the cave walls opened up into a great hall and the ceiling doubled its height. In this hall, an elaborate array of torches lined the inside of ten massive columns carved from the walls, five to the right and five to the left. On the opposite side of each column hung another lamp lighting the face of the walls and the entrances to yet more tunnels, running to more rooms within the mountain. In the center of the hall, three monstrous chandeliers hung from the ceiling, lighting the way to the far end.

  There, with a king’s court all to himself, Mornoc, the father of rebellion and pride, sat on his throne. Positioned against the far wall, facing east, it was cut from the stone floor. Its arms yielded to the shape of his grip and its seat and back to the posture of his body. The right arm of this throne was carved in the shape of a large hand, clenched in a fist. Resting in its grip was Mornoc’s spear, over ten feet long and razor sharp.

  The fine garments that would normally have adorned such a magnificent throne were instead carved into it; no ornament of clo
th, gold, or jewel was present. Without a single crack or fissure, it displayed such decorations in its surface and structure. But it was colorless. Mornoc himself wore robes in shades of gray and black. Even his skin color was a dingy gray, and his bald head did not shine in the glow of the lamps. His face was worn, lined by centuries past, wrinkled by bitterness and a desire for revenge. His eyes were gray, cold, and piercing.

  Staring at the other end of the hall and drumming his fingers on the arm of his throne, Mornoc wore a smug smile. His dirty nails clicked loudly in a slow and ominous rhythm. It was not joy or happiness that moved the corners of his mouth, but expectant malice. Content to remain silent in his hall, he was waiting, patiently waiting.

  “One day soon. One day soon . . .” Mornoc whispered to himself. “I will have mine.”

  With these words he jumped down from his throne and began to pace back and forth. With both arms held behind him, his robes flowed loosely, barely touching the floor. Turning sharply at the base of one column, he headed back toward the other with a measured pace, following a clear path he had worn into the stone floor. And every time he turned he would look toward the entrance. The guards stationed there remained at attention, not daring to observe the movements of their lord.

  Pausing, he brought a hand to his chin. Staring into the thin air in front of him, he muttered under his breath, “I will have mine.”

  He did not look upon the splendor of his hall or the size of the chandeliers above. His eyes were peeled on the one thing he had failed to attain so long ago. “I will have my own name, my own kingdom, my own . . .” His thoughts trailed off once again to a place he could not go. Scowling, he released his chin and clenched his fist. “I will have mine!” he said in a deep, suppressed yell. His words pulsed off of the rock walls. With a huff he returned to sitting on his throne and staring at the entrance to his hall.

  No sooner had he resumed his place than someone ascended the last stair to enter the hall. He was head and shoulders above the guards that stood on either side of the entrance. They both remained at attention, not daring to block his path. With long strides this giant of a man slowed to a stop and dropped to one knee in the middle of the hall. There, carved carefully into the floor was a large signet with the sign of Mornoc at the center; a clenched fist, raised in defiance. With his hands extended outward, revealing the length and strength of his arms, the giant bowed with his face to the ground. After a short, reverent pause, he arose and continued across the hall. In front of the throne he stopped, adjusting his stance, and folded his arms behind his back. As he waited to be addressed he looked at the feet of his lord.

  Apart from the gray cloak clasped around his neck, the giant was clothed from head to foot in the hides of animals. Under the light of the chandelier above, his short white hair shone brightly and his once youthful face was revealed. Though his appearance was more pleasing to the eye than that of his lord, his cheeks were scarred, as if burned by tears, and his countenance was just as cold. Standing at nearly eight feet, his size added weight to his already intimidating air.

  “Sobieslaw, what news of war do you bring?” Mornoc asked. His voice filled the hall.

  Sobieslaw smiled. “My lord, I have received word concerning Creedus. It is done.”

  Mornoc smiled and gazed into the distance once again. For a moment he paused, savoring the message. Standing up on the step of his throne, he took a deep breath. “So, the hour has come, and our silence has paid us well. The strongest of men has been subdued and with him the sword that has denied me my rightful rule.”

  “Yes, my lord. Scouts from the halls of Casimir visited his cabin last night as he slept,” Sobieslaw continued. “I have also unexpectedly received word that many of the Véran are in Wellman. What would my lord have?”

  Mornoc cocked his head at his captain’s last comment. “Hmmm. The Véran, though leaderless for now, will find another to replace Creedus. But, it will not be enough. To begin, Wellman must fall, and it must fall hard.” Mornoc paused and sat down in thought. With a furrowed brow he raised his voice. “Too long have these zealots refused me. They will die for their obstinacy.” Mornoc slammed his fist on the arm of his throne in angry resolve. “Casimir shall be the first to move. He has shown himself worthy of such an honor. Crush Wellman and we will crush the hopes of this land. We must strike every city before the first snow falls in the north.”

  “I will send word, my lord.” Sobieslaw bowed low and turned to go.

  “Sobieslaw, send word also to the spies,” Mornoc added coolly. “Every leader that may oppose me must fall.”

  “It will be done,” Sobieslaw answered over his shoulder with a deep voice. Spurred on by the call to arms, he quickened his stride when he reached the stair, and marched down the main hall to one of its many tunnels. There, under the engraving of his own name, Sobieslaw addressed his guard with authority. Taking one of the torches from above its door he disappeared down the tunnel.

  The guard quickly carried out his orders. Marching as fast as he could without breaking into a run, he headed for the courtyard. He did not stop to inform anyone of his task. Only the sound of his steps could be heard through the cave, a hurried messenger’s approach.

  At the entrance to the cave, the guard slowed to share a few words with the guardians of the mountain concerning his mission. One of them immediately accompanied him through the courtyard to the gate. Using the head of his battle-axe as a tool, the guardian unlatched all ten of the gate’s locks. He then rapped on the door three times as a signal to the guard on the opposite side. Leaning against one side of the gate with his full weight and strength, he was able with the help of the guard on the other side to open it enough to let Sobieslaw’s messenger through. As soon as he let up his effort, the gate drifted back into place. With three more raps on the gate, the guardian methodically replaced all of the locks and returned to his post.

  Along the path that led through the center of the courtyard were multiple large rocks laying to one side or the other. The guardian of the Black Mountain passed them by without a thought, for his daily view consisted of that same sullen ground that did not change for the wind. But hidden behind one of these rocks, a miracle was taking place. Just breaking the soil’s gravel surface, a small green shoot labored to emerge, unfazed by its parched surroundings. For as long as the courtyard’s walls and gate had been standing, no living thing had dwelt there. But the evil that had killed the mountain itself had not stopped this tiny plant from taking root; and it was growing.

  * * * * *

  “Einar!?” Corred burst through the cabin door. “My grandfather is gone!” Corred was out of breath and shaking with emotion.

  Einar paused over the wash pail, hands full of water halfway to his face. “What do you mean?”

  “My grandfather’s door is open, and he’s gone.” Corred was pale with fright. “There is a spear driven into the center of his floor . . . with blood on it. The Sword is gone!”

  Einar dropped the water from his hands back into the pail and rushed past Corred. Flying off the front step, he ran through the open door of Creedus’ cabin. Sure enough, in the middle of the floor was a scout’s spear, blood covering the blade, driven into the boards. Einar scanned the room. Creedus’ cloak was still hanging on its peg, coals glowed faintly in the fireplace, and there were no signs of struggle beside. “No!” Einar compulsively yelled. “No!”

  Walking slowly out of the cabin and into the street, Einar held his hands on his head, trying to contain his shock. The town around them had no idea the depth of tragedy that had struck them this time, again, in the dark of night. Scanning the town around him, trying to process what was happening, Einar looked back at Corred.

  “My grandfather . . .” Corred said, staring above the houses around him to the horizons beyond. Tears welled up in his eyes. Drearily looking to Einar, he said very softly, in disbelief. “And the Sword . . . it’s gone.”

  Einar let out a groan of disappointment that could not be e
xpressed in words. Pulling his hands down over his face slowly, he began to pace about the street. Before he could gather any words of comfort for Corred, wrath for their enemy, or thoughts of response, the sound of horse’s hooves broke his trance.

  Remiel, coming from further in town, slowed to a stop when he saw Einar and Corred standing listless in the street. “Is everything alright?” Naveed looked at them both sideways, as if he shared his rider’s sense of concern. Steam billowed from his flared nostrils as he nervously began to back up, casting additional glances at Creedus’ cabin.

  Corred was slow to acknowledge him, looking up from his feet with tears streaming down his face. At first he could only mouth the words, but on his second attempt, he replied, quite simply, “My grandfather has been killed, taken . . . and the Sword with him.”

  Without hearing another word of explanation, Remiel jumped from Naveed’s back and ran past Einar to see for himself.

  “No!” Einar yelled again. Running his hands through his hair, he began pacing even faster in front of Creedus’ cabin. “This can’t be happening,” he said. Casting repetitive glances at his young friend, Einar still had nothing to say.

  Corred sat on the steps of his own cabin, his head spinning. The sun began to cut through the morning mist as his heart sank within him. The confidence he had gained the night before, over the last three days, was gone. He was empty, broken in a moment. When will this end? Am I going to lose my whole family? Will everyone I’ve ever loved be killed right in front of me? This is too much for me. Dark questions filled his mind, drowning out the light.

  Remiel reappeared on the porch as Einar continued pacing the street. He quietly observed the loss that these two warriors were experiencing, and his heart broke with compassion. Removed enough from the shock, he acted first.

  “I will try to call the others together before they all leave Wellman. This would not have been done unless Mornoc means war.” There was no fear or panic in Remiel’s voice, but rather, well-known urgency. Looking at Einar and Corred, who had only half acknowledged his offer, he raised his voice a bit more, “The time is coming,” he said. “Einar, Corred!” He called their names to gain their attention.