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

by Jaffrey Clark

  “That was . . . an eagle?” Einar asked gently, feeling awkward to even suggest such a thing.

  “Yes.” Remiel smiled proudly. “That is Oswin. He has been my friend since I can remember.” Remiel paused before pulling his attention away from what had just happened. He looked at Corred directly. “It appears we have another battle to prepare for. Casimir is going to overrun us.” He said it with righteous contempt.

  Corred caught the fire in his eye.

  * * * * *

  Oswin’s arrival and departure had not gone unnoticed by Casimir. Feeling the growth on his face, he immediately dismissed that it could be anything other than a large bird. But even that baffled him. Most wildlife had fled the surrounding area with the coming of his army. It was indeed strange to see such a magnificent bird flying over a place of desolation and death. But the conflict of logic did not hold his attention, for he was not given to logic. It was hate that drove him.

  Casimir turned to see Selcor approaching with his pouch once again full of spears. His steps were much lighter after a morning of rest.

  With a slight bow he gave the impending report. “My lord, your soldiers are ready to follow you into battle.”

  Casimir judged the height of the sun in the sky and smiled at the thought. “Assemble them. We will advance at my command, together, from the south. I want to address Wellman before I crush it under my club.”

  “Yes, my lord.” Selcor turned and ran back to the woods to carry out the command.

  * * * * *

  Remiel waited at the southern edge of Wellman, standing next to the smoldering remains of what had served as a blockade the night before. It was as if he had not changed position since the day before. With an unassuming air, he faced the woods to the south, waiting patiently.

  To his left and right were Boyd and Beathan, stationed among the ruins of the outer rim. Reinforcements had been pulled from everywhere to once again strengthen the southern defense. Corred now stood with him while other members of the Véran helped Einar call every available hand to make ready for battle.

  It was, once again, a waiting game. This time, no horn would sound for a second attack, for another was inevitable. But, with a sense that providence had smiled upon them, Wellman and the leaders of the Véran were filled with hope. The communications of their enemy had been thwarted. By the admission of one of the most evil beings that breathed, Creedus was alive, and the one who had interceded for them had been an eagle. Not only so, but a man who had remained untouched and unstopped the night before stood with them . . . the friend of an eagle.

  Word of these mysterious revelations had spread throughout the town and even Lord Wellman was again on his feet with his sword and spear ready. Though pale from fatigue, the fire of vengeance still burning in his eyes.

  In the distance, without a word, Casimir began the march on Wellman. The whole of his army assembled behind him like a black wave, slowly covering the fields. No torches were lit this time. They were coming to kill, hand to hand.

  Casimir waived his club about gently, ever measuring its weight against the strength of his arm. He loosened and tightened his grip, itching for the first blow. With the other hand he adjusted the pouch on his back full of spears made only for him.

  Pacing himself, Casimir advanced on Wellman, enjoying the sight of destruction that became clearer with every step. For nearly fifty years he had been waiting to wage war once again on those who had been promised what he could never again have. The raging torrent of fury that had been building up inside of him was ready to be unleashed with abandon.

  Head and shoulders above any scout in his army, Casimir appeared to the men of Wellman like a man among children. Most were rendered speechless with fear.

  “Here they come!” Alarm began to arise in Wellman. Any women and children tending to what remained of their homes ran for the center of town. When it was clear that the attack would be from the south, men left their posts around the rest of the perimeter to meet the advance head on.

  Wellman’s defense found its stance, sizing up its enemy, this time in the sunlight. Tattered, weary, worn, and poorly equipped, they now faced an army of scouts that may well have been twice their numbers, trained for one purpose: their destruction. Unlike the night before, their number could now be plainly seen. It brought little comfort.

  Corred and Lord Wellman joined Remiel where he stood awaiting the attack.

  “Confidence is a shaky thing when its basis is unknown,” Remiel said, turning to Lord Wellman. “What do the men you lead place their hope in?” he asked. Remiel posed his serious question with marked calm.

  Lord Wellman looked at him blankly. “I can only speak for myself that my hope is in the continuation of my line, of Wellman, and of good men.” He began to frown at their conversation and even flush with anger. “This is hardly the time for such conversation. I suggest we watch these fiends and choose a number to kill before they are upon our children. We can speak of confidence when it is regained from a battle won.”

  Remiel listened and heard not only his words but also the desperation and doubt in them. “A battle won,” Remiel repeated quietly.

  One hundred yards from the southern road into Wellman, Casimir stopped. Holding up his hand, his army halted behind him. Reaching into his clothes, he pulled out a piece of white cloth. Against the backdrop of black around it, the cloth stood out like a star against a dark night sky.

  Placing it on the end of one of his spears, Casimir turned and called one of the scouts from behind him. Without hesitation he joined his captain at the front.

  Casimir handed him his spear with the white cloth and addressed him sternly. “Advance to the opening of the southern road to see if they will hear your message. If they do not attack, but allow you to approach, this is the message you are to give them.”

  Head and shoulders above any scout in his army, Casimir appeared to the men of Wellman like a man among children. Most were rendered speechless with fear.

  “Does such a man exist in the Lowlands?” Lord Wellman exclaimed. “He is taller than my spear.”

  “He is hardly a man,” Remiel replied. “He is a Mallith. Nothing with a heart of stone is truly alive.” Remiel’s voice grew deeper. “That is Casimir.”

  Lord Wellman looked at Remiel wide-eyed. His astonishment gave him away; he had hardly believed that such a being really existed. Not until now. His mouth hung open as one who beheld a ghost. “A Mallith?” he asked silently.

  “One of the Four, and arguably the cruelest,” Remiel replied as he squinted under the sun. He did not seem disturbed to say it, but rather his voice seemed even stronger with the admittance.

  Fully expecting a barrage of spears followed by a charge, the men lining the edge of town relaxed a little when a lone messenger began walking toward them with a flag of truce.

  “It appears that Casimir would like to have a word with us before he attacks,” Corred said to his companions. “Hold your arrows. Let him approach,” he yelled to his right and left.

  As the scout traversed the gap between his fellow scouts and the edge of town, Casimir began pacing back and forth. In a moment of silence, all eyes were on the messenger, eager to hear what this giant had to say.

  Standing erect with the throwing spear in his hand, serving as a flag of truce, the messenger addressed Wellman’s defense with the loudest voice he had.

  “Lord Casimir, Captain of Mornoc, defies you all.” He spoke more with contempt than authority. “He calls your best man to bring his weapons and fight him in this field, if there is such a man willing among you.” His delivery very quickly turned to mocking. “Let him who has half a heart come forward and fight. If no such man can be found, Casimir will surely leave your town in ruins, and every life will be taken.” After a short pause, he added with a sneer, “Let the hero of your forefather’s stories fight for you, if he will.” With that the scout stuck the spear into the ground and ran back to his army.

  The men of Wellman cowere
d behind the smoldering remains of their houses. Deafening silence was all that followed Casimir’s challenge. Whether at the hand of Casimir or his army, none would be spared, that much was clear.

  The heads of Véran, Einar included, stood frozen to the ground. Corred observed those around him, watching their courage leave them like dust in the wind. His throat was dry. He couldn’t speak through the fear that had gripped him also. Only his grandfather in his youth, with the Sword, would even stand a chance.

  Even Lord Wellman, who had fought valiantly the night before, remained where he was. He swallowed hard, searching for something to say as his men began to shift their weight and draw back a step.

  Remiel promptly drew his sword.

  Lord Wellman started at the sound, looking at him with wild eyes. “He will destroy you! You yourself said that he is a Mallith!” Lord Wellman looked again at their enemy. “No man has ever defeated a Mallith!”

  “One man has,” Remiel replied.

  “But he lived in Amilum,” Lord Wellman replied. “He had the Sword! See reason, man,” he pleaded.

  Pointing his sword at the giant, Remiel spoke with an authority unbecoming his appearance. “Heart of stone or of flesh, he has breathed his last murderous threat.” With that, he set out upon the southern road into the fields. With his every step the sun seemed to shine more brightly, and Remiel himself began to look larger and stronger than the men of Wellman remembered him.

  Casimir smiled in satisfaction at the sight. Walking forward with long strides to meet his challenger, he mocked the man’s very arrival. “Have you come to end your life sooner, little man?”

  When his challenger did not respond, Casimir drew one of his spears and held it high. With his club in his other hand he ran forward to make a quick end of him. But that is when he saw his opponent’s face. Running to meet him, sword held high, Casimir’s challenger had not the least bit of fear in his eyes. With a piercing gaze, his face was firm. The double edge of his sword shone in the sun like a flame.

  When Casimir recognized who it was, he was overcome by shame and rage. “It can’t be!” he whispered harshly to himself. With his nostrils flared and teeth bared, he gave a horrible cry. Releasing his spear with all his might he raised his club for a powerful blow.

  Remiel rolled to the side, avoiding the first attack as Casimir’s spear sailed wide and buried itself in the worn path that lead into town.

  Meeting where the southern fields and the southern road joined, Casimir released his hatred in an opening blow that could have felled a tree.

  Staying light on his feet, Remiel narrowly dodged Casimir’s second attack. Avoiding a flurry of blows, Remiel weaved about his enemy, deflecting one strike after another with his sword.

  Sparks flew into the grass every time their weapons met as the sound of metal upon metal mixed with Casimir’s angry screams, echoing through the fields. Remiel’s sword sliced through the air like a flash of light with every artful swing.

  Each side of the battle stood in awe, watching Remiel closely. It appeared to them all that Remiel knew exactly where to step and when to deflect each blow such that Casimir was really no challenge at all. Casimir’s scouts grew increasingly nervous as the men of Wellman found confidence with Casimir’s every failed attack. For several minutes Remiel remained on the defensive, as if tolerating his enemy’s attack.

  It was not long before Casimir’s rage began to take a toll on him, and his blows weakened from their initial strength. With less accuracy he sent large pieces of earth flying into the air with each wild swing. Still barring his teeth like a wild beast, his breathing became heavy and his curses fewer.

  Even the sweat of Remiel’s brow seemed to shine as he moved to avoid each blow, any of which could have ended his life. With confidence unwavering, he did not back down. Addressing Casimir for the first time, Remiel spoke as a master to a servant. “You know why I am here, Child of Death.”

  Casimir straightened to his full height and looked Remiel in the eyes. Shame deeper than words could express contorted his face. Pain and anguish gripped him, leaving nothing but rebellion, his only remaining strength.

  “Today I will take your remaining life, and administer your final judgment, nameless one!” Remiel lunged toward him.

  With lightning fast reflexes, Casimir tossed his club aside and pulled two spears from his pouch, one in each hand. Deflecting Remiel’s strike with a downward thrust of his crossed spears, he stepped back.

  Remiel continued advancing so as to stay close enough that the fight would be determined by his skill with the sword, but Casimir would not have it. Dropping back quickly he released one spear, then another, pulling and throwing with both hands.

  Back on the defensive, Remiel deflected the spears with his sword, leaving each one splintered on the ground. Moving from side to side, he followed Casimir, anticipating his every attack.

  When there was only one spear left in his pouch, Casimir paused for breath.

  Remiel paced back and forth, knowing the end was near. With eyes fixed on Casimir’s heavy arms, he steadied his breath and gripped his sword tighter.

  Though it was becoming clear that he could not win, Casimir remained as defiant as he had the day he’d become a rebel. Casimir slowly pulled the last spear from his pouch. This was unlike his others, for in fact, it was not a throwing spear at all; with a long thick shaft and large double-edged blade, he gripped it in both hands, mimicking Remiel’s stance. Spitting at him, Casimir spoke through set teeth. “I am Casimir, and I have no King!” With renewed vigor, he assailed Remiel, and the field was once again filled with the sound of metal upon metal.

  Casimir’s army began to stir, having never seen their Captain challenged before. Some scouts shifted nervously, others cursed under their breath; there were none left who believed Casimir could win. This stranger struck a fear in their hearts that they had never felt before.

  Selcor watched the exchange with an icy stare, hiding his growing dread. One thing was becoming clear: with Casimir slain and this great warrior opposing him, Wellman would not be easily taken. A plan for safe retreat was already in the forefront of his mind. Selcor had a prisoner to present to Mornoc whether Wellman fell now or later.

  Wellman watched with the same eager attention. In awe of this stranger’s stand, many began advancing, gripping their swords in growing expectation of victory. Each blow and block became their own as Remiel fought for them, doing what none of them could ever have done. The stir among the men of Wellman was also one of inquiry. Some even dared to ask the question: “Is this the one we have waited for? Could this be a champion from the West?” As their minds weighed the possibility, Remiel’s sword made quick work of Casimir’s last defense. In a series of quick slashes to the center of Casimir’s spear, he broke it in two, sending half of it flying into the field.

  With what he had left, Casimir made one last desperate thrust. Stepping aside, Remiel pierced him though, cracking Casimir’s heart of stone.

  Casimir took his last venomous breath and fell to the ground. With a weak hiss, his soul was sent to its second and everlasting exile.

  The cheers that arose from Wellman were deafening. Not a single man was cowering now. With swords lifted high, they charged Casimir’s army. Arrows filled the air, peppering the scouts as they turned to flee for the woods in every direction.

  Lord Wellman was again leading the charge, pursuing the enemy with abandon.

  Remiel joined in the routing, striking down every scout that crossed him. Some turned to fight, but in vain, for they could not stand against him.

  Corred, Einar, and Bjorn were all there, fighting side by side.

  The southern fields were littered with the bodies of the enemy as the sun began its descent. Casimir’s scouts fled south, back to where they had come from. Food, drink, spears, torches, and every other thing they had carried was abandoned.

  The tables had fully turned; chaos and fear filled the enemy when only a night before they themselv
es had been cause for trembling. All this had been accomplished by one man.

  He is more than a man. Corred marveled at Remiel. Never before had he seen such confident bravery and a willingness to fight for others in the face of death. And to think that he had arrived so unnoticed. He even gave me a drink of water before he took his own.

  Talk was on the lips of every man, woman, and child. Talk of redemption. As surely as Casimir’s body was left lying in the southern fields, so some began to believe that the long-awaited warrior, promised to their fathers, had at last arrived, a deliverer from the West who would bring renewal and an end to exile, for the hope of every heart and the life of every soul.

  But even for those who knew the whole Promise, word for word, they did not know in full how it would be fulfilled. War had only just begun and it would not suddenly end with the death of one of the Four. Those that had remained in Wellman from the Northern Villages knew that from the words of the late Casimir had come orders for a far greater force to attack their homes. Not taking for granted that that news had been providentially intercepted, Bjorn, Bernd, and the others they had traveled with did not wait for morning before they began their ride home. They beseeched Remiel to accompany and lead them, but he sent them on with a blessing as he had already decided to join the effort to rescue Creedus and the Sword.

  * * * * *

  Sobieslaw’s robe flowed behind him as he made his way through the halls of the Black Mountain with long strides; a small parchment was in his hand. Ignoring the commotion around him, the news in his hand carried him forward.

  Bounding up the steps to Mornoc’s hall, his usual display of reverence was slightly more rushed than usual. Approaching Mornoc, who ever drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne, Sobieslaw held out the parchment with the full length of his arm, not daring to touch his lord’s throne.

  Mornoc rose and received it. For a short moment he read silently.