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

by Jaffrey Clark

  “No more than you, my friend. Of this I am sure. What I do know is our enemy and his cruelty. He is capable of the greatest atrocities thinkable.” Softening his voice as he watched the town’s preparation, he added, “Mornoc seldom attacks half heartedly. In the past he has struck from all sides at once, many villages at a time.”

  Corred remained silent. A chill ran the full length of his spine. He thought of his sister Galena, his uncle Logen, aunt Shae, his cousin Garrin. He feared for them. With a long swallow he pushed back the anxiety that threatened to undermine his composure. At least they should be well warned. “I have sent word to Oak Knoll and Renken of the events of this morning. The riders should be returning shortly,” Corred told Remiel. Though, it was more a matter of reminding himself, as he grasped for confidence in the role he was now trying to fill. He was a grandson of Creedus and the only one of his line both living and believing in the Promise. He was not only part of a remnant of those who believed in the Promise, but a remnant of his family.

  “Good. They will be well able to prepare for what is coming,” Remiel replied.

  Corred observed his friend’s countenance. Remiel looked to him exactly the same as he had when he first arrived at the well to water his horse two days prior: reserved, strong, and kind. Corred marveled that he was seemingly unshaken. Only a stranger, unaware of the danger facing him could act this way. Or, he knows exactly what is happening. But why, if he were a villain would he tell me all this? He can’t be. Remiel seemed the very opposite.

  A soft tap on his right arm startled him from his contemplation. Turning sharply he beheld Olwen, dressed in a white gown with her long brown braids tied high on her head. With a timid smile she curtsied.

  “Olwen, I hope you are well.” He bowed instinctively, though he wished to hold her more than respect her status.

  “I am comforted to know that you are here to protect us.” She looked him in the eye, searching his thoughts. In her hands she held a bundle wrapped in purple cloth.

  “I regard it the highest of honors,” Corred replied, staring into her green eyes. “If there is anything that you need, I will gladly see that you receive it.” He broke his gaze as Olwen met it. He feared that his own boldness would betray his feelings completely.

  “I wish only to give you a gift,” she said. Un-wrapping the bundle, she presented him with a blade. It was a large knife, nearly unused, with a braided leather scabbard. “It belonged to my brother Pedrig, given to him by my father. He gave it to me only a year ago.” She paused uncomfortably, looking at the blade and then at Corred. “I want you to have it.” She made her case, expecting to be refused.

  Corred’s eyes widened in surprise, “I cannot. It is sacred to you.” Corred took a half step backward. “What would your father say?”

  Remiel watched Olwen carefully without becoming an audience.

  “My father has ordered our house to mourn for my brother no longer. We will celebrate his life for years to come, but we cannot dwell on his loss when our town is in danger of attack.” Her lip quivered with emotion. Taking a step toward him, she held out the dagger. “I owe my life to you, and gladly give that which is dear to me, and mine to give.” She looked into his eyes again, searching for approval. “It would honor my family if you would receive this gift.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “It would honor me.”

  How can I refuse you? Taking the blade, Corred carefully strapped it onto his belt. Focusing again on Olwen, he held her hands. “I will honor your family by accepting this gift.” Lowering his voice, he added, “I will honor you, beautiful, Olwen.”

  She blushed brightly, but left her hands in his, staring into his eyes. “And I want you to know,” she said, her face turning more serious, “that my prayers are for you in your loss, and for your grandfather, as we must not lose hope for him.”

  Corred felt as if he would break apart. He had lost his greatest hero, and he was gaining the girl he loved at the same time. Corred wanted to believe her too, that there was hope for his grandfather. But he didn’t. It was the Sword that they had come for, plain and simple. Without Creedus, the Véran would find another leader, but without the Sword, they no longer had the one weapon that had never failed them in battle against Mornoc’s forces, the only weapon that could slay a Mallith.

  Corred could barely mouth, “Thank you.” The lump in his throat was unbearable. There was no sense in vocalizing his doubts. He had to appear strong, even if he wasn’t. After a moment had passed, Corred let go.

  Olwen realized they were being watched by some of those around them and withdrew a step. Nodding toward the knife on his belt, she said, “May it serve you well, and may you find strength for what lies ahead.” With that she turned and retreated to her father’s mansion.

  With a last glance, Remiel smiled and went again to water Naveed at the well on the northern side of town.

  Corred watched her go until she was out of sight, unaware that his interest was easily seen. Only once Olwen had slipped behind closed doors did he again concern himself with the tasks at hand. Though heavy inside, Corred felt as though there was a new spring in his step. Resting his right hand on the hilt of his new blade, he rejoined Tristan who was now busy outfitting an older gentleman and his young sons with swords and shields.

  “How does the weight of it feel?” Corred asked the father, who was gripped the handle of one of the swords.

  “A little heavy, I think,” the man answered. His two younger sons were already testing their abilities with some short blades meant for boys such as themselves.

  Corred pulled another sword from the few that remained and compared it with the one the man held. Their blades were both rather dull but they held a sharp point.

  The man timidly took the second blade and compared it with the first. He held one then the other, entirely unsure of what to think.

  Tristan kept quiet and looked to Corred for a better opinion.

  Corred watched the man’s awkward assessment and spoke up, “If you were to be suddenly attacked at this moment by a man who wished to take the life of your boys, what would you do?”

  The man was taken aback by the question and furrowed his brow as if offended at the notion. “I don’t suppose I know exactly, but I do know it wouldn’t be pretty for him.” He raised his voice slightly and the color rose to his face at the mere thought. With little more consideration he handed the second sword back. “This one will do just fine” he said, raising the first in an awkward salute. It suddenly appeared much lighter in his grip.

  “I would agree,” Corred said with a nod and smile. “When it comes to it, it’s the man holding the sword, not the weapon itself.”

  The man called his sons and led them home with their new found, dangerous toys.

  Together they joined the rest of the town in finishing preparations for nightfall. Every home needed to be ready and every man braced for what he could only imagine was coming.

  Corred turned his attention again to the town square to observe the preparations. From amongst all of the activity something caught his attention. Cautiously stepping from between two cabins and into the open of the square, a hefty fellow looked around curiously. His expression was one of confusion, or disbelief, as if he were lost.

  I know that face. I don’t believe it . . . “Garrin!? Over here!” Corred ran to meet his cousin.

  At the sound of his name Garrin awoke as from a stupor. Turning to see his younger cousin running toward him, his face turned bright red. He looked at the ground and then at a woman nearby who noticed the commotion.

  “Garrin, did you meet a messenger on the road?” Corred stopped suddenly before him, seeing that he was upset, and for good reason. Softening his voice, Corred extended his hand. “Thank you for coming. How are your parents? How is Galena?” he asked.

  “They are preparing for war. It was a blow to the whole town to learn the news of our grandfather.” Garrin’s voice was weak. “Corred, am I such a fool that it would take this for me to give
up my doubts?” He looked in Corred’s eyes, pleading with him. His eyes were bloodshot from crying.

  Corred drew a step closer and put a hand on Garrin’s shoulder. Fighting his own grief, he forced a smile. “Do not be so hard on yourself. Be thankful that our grandfather stood for something so great that he was willing to die for it.” He was now crying as well, blinking away the tears to focus on his cousin. “He would be proud beyond words that you are here.” With that he could speak no more and embraced his cousin freely.

  In their younger years they had been like brothers. As they grew older, it was not a difference of opinion, but rather, a difference of conviction that had divided them. In a family where failed expectations were more common than unity, they finally saw eye to eye in an hour of crisis. They had both always loved their grandfather, and now Garrin was beginning to understand how much.

  * * * * *

  As the sun slowly set in the west, Boyd and Beathan kept watch. The woods were cast with rays of sunlight, cutting through their view from the side as they watched the southern borders surrounding Wellman. Any shift in the breeze sent the beams dancing across the forest floor, playing with the shadows. The birds were singing as they usually did in the evening, and a pair of squirrels chased each other over fallen branches through the maze of underbrush.

  This was unlike any hunt they had been on before. Their senses were not directed toward detecting the arrival of life, but the coming of death. As first defense, Wellman now depended on their keen eyesight as never before.

  Beathan could see Boyd several hundred yards away on the first of many ridges that grew to be the Bryn Mountains. His horn hung at his side, waiting to be used. Both of them were on foot, having left their mounts tied a few trees away. They too waited patiently for action.

  With little to do but wait and watch, they scanned the forest in every direction. Every movement was analyzed and the source of it identified. Beathan did not have an arrow on his string as he had earlier. After a full day of vigilance, he was feeling the fatigue of readiness. His bow lay on the ground within reach. His will to act had relaxed and he was becoming increasingly aware of his need for sleep.

  A check to his attentiveness arrived in a flash. Moving toward him from the opposite ridge, a large brown shape passed between two trees. There was no sound that accompanied its movement. In the fading light Beathan could not make it out through the trees. In one quick motion Beathan picked up his bow, drew an arrow, and sought to relocate the movement. A large winged creature was flying through the woods at an alarming speed, headed right for him. Beathan froze with fear and awe as the magnificent creature, with one powerful flap of its wings, passed over him no more than twenty feet away. A flash of red and brown caught his eye as the creature vanished on the other side of the ridge. “Wow,” Beathan said under his breath.

  His mount gave a snort, shifting about where he was loosely tied to the lowest branch of a tall ash tree. Beathan escaped his state of wonderment just enough to whisper a few words of reassurance to his horse, eyes riveted back toward Wellman to catch one more glimpse. Having been stirred from his rigid watch by the creature’s sudden appearance, Beathan realized his hunger. From his pack on the ground next to him, he made a meager meal of some crusted bread. With his water half raised to wash it down, he paused. The birds had stopped singing; it was silent. Crouching down to get a better look at the opposite hill through the trees, Beathan held his breath.

  Breaching the crest, running straight for him was a tide of scouts numbering in the hundreds; they moved through the woods with frightening agility and speed. Beathan cast a quick glance at Boyd who was already mounting his horse.

  Tossing his water skin over his shoulder Beathan stashed his arrow, tucked his bow behind his quiver and lifted the horn to his lips. Letting loose a long hard blow he ran to his horse which was now pulling on his reins, eyes wide, ears pressed against his head. It let out a disturbed whinny, shivering with anticipation of the coming danger.

  Without looking back, Beathan jumped into his saddle and flew down the hill toward Wellman, blowing his horn the whole way. Dodging low branches and jumping underbrush, he tore up one of the thin roads that led out of the Bryn Mountains. Several hundred yards away, Boyd’s horn bellowed loudly, echoing through the trees.

  Urging his horse on, Beathan strained to see the end of the woods. Hugging his horse’s mane, he blinked away a tear as the wind whipped him in the face; every hundred yards or so he lifted his horn to his lips.

  At last the fields came into view. With one last sound of his horn Beathan broke from the shade of the forest into the last rays of daylight. Racing across the southern fields, he joined Boyd. Riders from all directions retreated from their posts with the wind on their heels.

  Waiting to meet them at the edge of town were Corred and Remiel, standing in front of a barricade constructed of two wagons laid on their sides. Before they could ask, Beathan called out the report.

  “Hundreds of scouts, maybe thousands, are headed this way. They are on foot, but moving fast. I have never seen anything like it in all my life.” Beathan’s horse turned about anxiously as he yelled the news.

  Boyd likewise tried to calm his horse, which refused to believe he was yet safe.

  “And night is falling,” Corred said with a deep breath. “There will be no rest tonight. Are they coming directly from the south?” he asked them both.

  Beathan answered first. “Directly from the south, though I doubt they will attack from one point. They may even outnumber us.”

  Remiel spoke up. “Go through the town and warn the women and children to take cover. Be sure that they have plenty of water. Tell the men to take their positions.”

  Corred looked at Remiel with widened eyes. “Do you think they aim to burn the town?” he asked.

  “How would you besiege a town at night?” Remiel asked plainly. “Fire will send us into panic, distracting us from the fight.”

  Einar looked on from behind, his face reflecting his agreement.

  Corred nodded. “You’re right.” Noticing Remiel had only his sword, he asked, “Do you have a shield to use?”

  “No. My sword will be enough,” Remiel replied.

  Corred returned to his cabin to retrieve his own shield. How can he still be so calm? No shield? I just hope he’s not a fool.

  All around him the town was in a flurry. Some of the young children were crying, afraid of what they did not understand as their mothers hurried them inside. Older children helped in final preparations of securing their homes, wide-eyed and unsure of what to think. The men were gathering in the streets with their older sons as the heads of Véran had instructed them.

  Remiel remained at the edge of town, watching the southern border, patiently.

  Chapter 15

  Just inside the woods to the south of town, Casimir stood tall with club in hand as Wellman fell under the dark of night. A malicious grin wrinkled his scarred face, revealing several of his bent teeth. With an army spread behind him and on either side, he waited for the glow on the western horizon to fully fade.

  His scouts rested from the day’s run while orders were given. With a leader for each task, the plan of attack was laid out in detail. Among those taking the lead were scouts who carried not only pouches of spears, but also large earthen vessels over their shoulders. Several fires were burning, with more being lit every minute.

  Returning from where he had been addressing a group of scouts, Selcor approached Casimir and stood at his right hand. With his eyes fixed also on the growing lights of the town, he reported to his captain, “Your army awaits your command, my lord.”

  Casimir smiled even wider. “Very well; you will lead the attack on the northern side.” Turning to Selcor, he added, “Bring me honor, soldier of Mornoc.” With that he turned to face the army that filled the woods behind him.

  Selcor called his fellow scouts to attention, “Hail your Mallith!”

  In a quick shift of feet on the fore
st floor, all came to attention and lifted a spear in salute.

  After a moment of deafening silence, Casimir quickly raised one of his own spears, longer and larger than any other present. “Our time has come!” he yelled. “Those who once despised you will now fear you. Light your torches, soldiers of Mornoc, and let them hear you!”

  * * * * *

  The whole of Wellman turned in unison and looked to the south. Every person with ears to hear heard the roar of voices from across the southern fields. Conversations died, men stopped in their tracks, dogs barked, and young children held tightly to their mothers’ legs.

  Remiel remained where he was, leaning on one of the wheels of the overturned wagons. Clenching his jaw, he squinted to see the source.

  Corred rejoined him where he stood with a thick wooden shield in his left hand.

  Garrin was right behind him. With a huge broad sword and a crude metal shield, he looked around nervously, trying to make sense of the moment. A man who had only hours ago acknowledged that he had an enemy, he now found himself immersed in the reality which he had so long denied. The battle cries in the distance sent adrenaline pulsing through his core, awakening in him a fearful and desperate resolve.

  For as long as a minute the cries kept up, rising and falling in volume. At first its source could not be seen, but in time, the woods began to glow, growing brighter, until it appeared as if the trees themselves were on fire.

  “Here they come,” Remiel said quietly.

  The bright glow slowly began to disperse along the edges of the woods and fan out into the field. In the areas of highest intensity, dark shapes could be seen walking to and fro, all the while advancing on the town. Their intentions soon became clear as they advanced to surround Wellman in a sea of torches.

  Garrin could do little but stare at the scene in wonder. He had never imagined such an army existed. His huge arms felt weak for the first time in his life.