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

by Jaffrey Clark

  Lord Mornoc, the true King of Amilum.

  As surely as you read this, Wellman has fallen into my hands. Upon receiving your wishes, I have carried out your command: to strike at the heart of hope and render your enemies leaderless. Many of the Véran have been destroyed and its leader, Creedus and the Sword of Homsoloc will soon be a trophy of your power. These lands are ripe for conquest.

  Captain Casimir

  Seeing that his plans were in motion, Mornoc returned the parchment to Sobieslaw and addressed him. “Send Captain Casimir my congratulations. Inform him that Creedus is to be brought to my hall immediately, lest the Sword fall into the hands of another man as courageous as he.”

  Sobieslaw bowed slightly. “And what of his next task, my lord?”

  Mornoc continued as if the question had not been asked. “Port will have fallen by this hour, as it is a city worthy of paying allegiance to me. It will not have resisted save for a few weak-minded individuals who have misplaced their hope.” Mornoc sat down slowly, thinking. The war he had so patiently planned was finally under way, and it brought a contented smile to his face. His terror would once again reign. Turning again to Sobieslaw, he finished, “I thoroughly expect that Ahriman is carrying out his plans for an attack on Renken. Casimir is to join him there after killing or converting every man, woman, and child in between.”

  Sobieslaw again bowed, this time to the ground. “As you wish, my lord.” In his fashion, Sobieslaw left in a hurry to fulfill Mornoc’s commands. As he had so many times before, he flew to his chamber, giving word to his guard of the message that was to be sent.

  As command gave way to action, Sobieslaw’s guard traversed the Black Mountain’s desolate courtyard as the day’s shadows were reaching their full length. He thought of nothing but his task and the news he carried, looking neither to the right or left; he noticed nothing different. But only yards from the path, the green shoot of a small flower began to rise. Yet unseen behind a large rock, its single bud reached for the sky, boldly displaying the bright red of its petals.

  Chapter 17

  As shadows in the Lowlands grew long in the setting sun, the stride of a large creature carried on untiring. Its immense power drove every step, pounding the earth relentlessly. On the back of this horse-like beast rode a man dressed in black, his cloak flying behind him in the wind. His features were sharp and his skin pale, standing out against his dark hair. Strapped to his back was a pouch of short spears, more closely resembling large arrows. The tension in his face spoke of the nature of his mission and the long sword hanging from his waist revealed its significance.

  Behind him three more hargus drummed their rhythmic gallop, each with its own rider. On the right and left were men dressed the same as the first: a pouch of spears, dark dress, and a stony countenance. In between these two rode an old man dressed in ordinary clothing, the one in the party against his will. With no coat to keep him warm, he gripped the mane of his mount, trying to hide from the wind. Despite his efforts it pulled at his shirt, long white hair, and his very strength. His once long white beard had been shorn off and his wrists were tied tightly with cords, cutting into his skin. A cut across his cheek and battered hands were signs of his resistance, but it had not been enough.

  His head was still tender from some of the blows he had received two nights before, when he had awakened to a band of scouts entering his cabin. Before he could reach for his sword or even cry for help, they had thrown him to the ground, leaving him with little to do but gasp for air. All that night he had fought, breaking free once, but to no avail. His every attempt at freedom earned him some new stripe and worse treatment than he would have received if he had been compliant.

  Creedus was at last looking and feeling the part of his age, worn to the core. The one thing that remained the same was the look in his eyes. In them could still be found a glimmer of hope. Even though his captor, Selcor now carried the Sword of Homsoloc, a prize that he had sworn to lose his life to protect, he did not wear the face of despair; something far greater than the Sword filled his thoughts now. He knew that Wellman had withstood the attack, and that Casimir was dead. It was because of these events that he was being so desperately rushed toward Mornoc’s keep.

  Creedus had seen it even in his captor’s cold eyes: the fear of one greater than the wicked captain he had once served. Creedus’ initial suspicions of such a thing had been openly confirmed by the stammering speech of one of the scouts in his escort. Dragged from his cell in the crevices of the Bryn Mountains, Creedus had watched in awe as many of the scouts that had returned were without weapons and scared witless. There was talk of the one who had slain Casimir, a man who shone as bright as the sun in battle. It was almost more than Creedus could contain, for he knew of only one who could have accomplished this: the promised champion, sent by the King. Could this at long last be him? He whispered to himself. And so Creedus was sustained within, though his outward strength was failing him.

  Selcor hadn’t stopped pressing the pace since they had left the southernmost part of the Bryn Mountains hours before, and Creedus knew they were not likely to stop anytime soon. The hargus was nearly twice as large as a horse and could run nearly twice as far without rest. Lifting his head to look again, Creedus could almost make out what looked to be the beginning of the Plains of Shole to the north. The land opened up more and more the further away from the Bryn Mountains they rode. It would be faster traveling in the open, but a much greater risk of being seen. It was clear that Selcor was leading them to the south to avoid Shole and its surrounding towns.

  Trying to maintain his grip on his hargus mane, Creedus lived each moment one at a time. Not only was he suffering from the cold, he had had nothing to eat in over a day. Wanting to communicate with the scout on his right, Creedus turned his head slightly, looking to see whether he might catch his attention. The scout’s pale face was riveted on the path ahead, as if he were in a trance. Creedus reached out his right hand, waving it about, hoping to catch the scout’s attention.

  After a moment the scout caught the motion out of the corner of his eye and turned his head. Glaring at Creedus with disapproval he returned to watching Selcor’s lead.

  Creedus tried again, waving his hand and holding it then to his mouth. Moving his lips, no sound came out of his dry throat. When he tried again, he could barely hear his own words. “I need bread. Do you have any food?”

  The scout shook his head without really giving any acknowledgement that he understood Creedus’ requests.

  Giving up after a few more tries, Creedus accepted that suffering would be his place in this journey. Hugging again the back of his hargus, he buried his face in its mane and shut the wind out of his mind. When his stomach cramped, he told it to be patient. When fear began to creep into his thoughts, he remembered what the scouts had said about the battle of Wellman. When anger toward his captors threatened his peace of mind, he recounted the Promise, knowing that they hated because they had no hope.

  Into the night Creedus held onto his remaining strength, stealing glimpses at the stars and what the moonlight would allow him to see. He had to keep his mind active. The cold was setting deep into his limbs, making it hard to stay awake. A fall from the hargus could be fatal at the speed they were moving. He could not let go. Though a prisoner, he was still a leader of his people. Since the hour of his capture, he had thought of Corred, wondering how he was faring without him. Creedus knew that Corred was not ready for the leadership he had been thrust into, and especially without the Sword. But it was too late now. Many things should have happened differently.

  “A champion has come,” Creedus whispered to himself. “A champion has come . . . as surely as the brightest star still shines in the sky.” Creedus looked up yet again; the brightest stars were shining. He continued, whispering to himself, “. . . a deliverer from the West to bring an end to exile, for the hope of every heart and the life of every soul. He will come swiftly to crush our enemies and to make a way of return to
the home of our father . . . the City of Amilum.” Even as he finished he noticed the speed of his hargus lessening. Looking ahead he saw his captor pulling up on the reins of his ride.

  Leading them into a cluster of trees, Selcor slid from his hargus to the ground and tied it immediately to one of the lower branches. In one motion he drew from his supplies a very large bag of feed and poured it on the ground for the hargus to eat. His fellow scouts did the same, sure to feed the animals right away to keep them calm. They were beasts of fierce emotion and had to be handled just right.

  Creedus could only try to make out what was taking place in the darkness around him. He couldn’t feel his limbs. Laboring to sit up straight, his mount began to paw the earth restlessly, seeing that the others were being fed. His vision began to swim. Hugging the side of the beast, he tried to slide to the ground, but with little success. He fell with a heavy thud, knocking the wind from his lungs. He crawled to his hands and knees, waiting for the air to return. Pain shot through his body like thousands of needles as the blood reluctantly began to flow more freely into his arms and legs.

  “Help him up. I’ll take his mount,” a deep voice said.

  Creedus rolled onto his back, still struggling to catch his breath as he looked wildly through the branches of the trees around him into the night sky. The scout taking orders obstructed his view as he grabbed his arms and pulled him to his feet.

  “His arms are colder than my hands,” the scout said with some surprise in his voice.

  With a long, loud gasp, Creedus regained his breathing and used it to groan as his muscles began to burn. He could do nothing to help in the process. As soon as he was lifted to his feet, he collapsed back to the earth.

  “Make a fire, quickly. I will give him my cloak for now. Our lord will not be pleased if he dies before we complete our journey.” The third voice stood out from the others as coming from the one who was in charge. Creedus could hardly feel the cloak as it was laid around his shoulders. Struggling to now calm his breathing, he began to convulse with cold. Every joint in his body screamed. “Water!” he gasped. “Water, please, give me some water.” Creedus felt like he was yelling but all that came out was a hoarse whisper.

  “Here, drink some of this.” Selcor handed him a small canteen. Not stopping to question its contents, Creedus brought it to his lips and drank, choking a little on his first mouthful. Creedus’ throat felt as if it was on fire. After another mouthful it became clear that it was not water at all. Coughing a little he handed the canteen back in disgust. “What is this?” he rasped. His mouth still felt dry.

  Selcor squatted in front of him and took the canteen back. “It’s the strongest ale that can be made, so leave some for us, old man. You’ll get your water as soon as we can get a fire going.” Leaving him there he walked to the edge of the trees to observe the fields to the north.

  Creedus’ feeling slowly returned to him, arms first, then his legs as he watched the other scouts build a fire before him. His senses grew sharper with every breath, and the fire in the drink coursed through his veins. Puzzled that fermented drink would have such an effect, he pulled the cloak around his body and tried to gather some warmth. As the first flames licked the air, his surroundings became clearer. The scouts who had been accompanying him on either side drew some provisions from their packs and sat down to a meal of cold, dried meat.

  Returning from the edges of the trees, Selcor stood by the fire and stared into the flame. The Sword of Homsoloc was still belted to his waist. Resting his hand on its hilt, he turned to look at Creedus with a cold stare. His eyes were hollow from lack of sleep but wide open.

  Creedus returned his gaze, calm enough in his weakness for the first time to stop and observe his captor. “May I have some bread?” he asked humbly.

  Without a word Selcor returned to his hargus, which was just finishing its own meal. Bringing his pack of supplies back to the fire, Selcor drew a crust of bread and a canteen of water. Tossing them to Creedus he commented, “A prisoner’s ration, as that is what you have become.”

  Creedus nodded, not surprised by his captor’s pride. He knew how great a prize the Sword was to the enemy. Turning his attention now to other tactics, he ate his bread silently, watching his captors. His hope of escape had passed as his desire to fight had faded with his strength. Now he would need to wage his war with words, choice words. Searching the scouts for a foothold with which to engage them in conversation, Creedus watched their every move.

  For some time no one said a word. At a point, all four of them were quietly watching the flames as they finished their last bit of food and drink. Creedus seized the moment to mumble very softly, “As surely as the brightest star still shines in the sky.”

  The scouts sitting across from him snapped out of their own thoughts and stared at him. Selcor did not respond at all. Returning their stare, Creedus watched the third out of the corner of his eye. Raising his eye-brows slightly he asked with a tone of surprise. “Have you never heard of such a saying?”

  “Save your breath, old man,” Selcor jumped on top of the conversation. His tone was sharp. “The stars don’t always shine, and fortune can be lost in one night.” He glared at Creedus. “A scout of Mornoc carries the Sword of Homsoloc.”

  Creedus could see his features more clearly when he turned to face him. The flames cast a soft glow on his gaunt cheeks and sharp jaw. “And what scout might that be?” Creedus quickly asked, as if to challenge his captor.

  “My name is Selcor, second in command to Casimir, captain of Mornoc,” he proudly responded.

  “Which makes you first in command, as your mighty captain has been slain by one greater,” Creedus said, nearly interrupting him. He pushed the limit to see their response.

  The other two scouts glared at him angrily, but Creedus could see the fear in their eyes renewed. Selcor curled his upper lip in anger. Slowly rising to his feet, he drew the Sword of Homsoloc, letting it ring just as Creedus had countless times before.

  Creedus watched in amazement as Selcor held the weapon skillfully, as if it fit in his hand. Adjusting his grip, Selcor took a step toward Creedus, continuing the sharp exchange. “Yes, and a worthy loss for a prize as great as the Sword.” His voice was more than sinister. Sticking the blade into the glowing coals he locked eyes with Creedus.

  The blade shined in the flames, revealing its inscription. Much to Creedus’ surprise it was as brilliant in this scout’s hand as it had been in his. But he remained calm, knowing the result of this exercise as he had done it before.

  After a long and dramatic pause, Selcor drew the sword from the coals and stepped toward Creedus, thrusting the tip at him. But instead of stabbing him, as his fellow scouts had half expected, Selcor turned the blade to rest the flat of it on Creedus’ neck.

  Keeping his eyes locked on Selcor’s, Creedus did not even flinch. There was no hiss of burning flesh, no cry of pain or even a single hair singed.

  Creedus smiled slightly, enjoying the shocked faces of his captives.

  Displeased that his treachery had been thwarted, Selcor turned the blade again and cut some of Creedus’ hair from below the ear in a quick twist of his wrist. Returning the tip of the sword to his throat, Selcor looked down his arm. “I don’t think you respect the power of my position. I am no common soldier of Mornoc.” Returning the sword to its sheath, Selcor resumed his seat. In that moment, as Selcor leaned toward the fire Creedus caught a glimpse of something that made his heart skip a beat. Just inside the collar of Selcor’s coat, a nasty scar much like the one he’d tried to give Creedus twisted up from his shoulder.

  Creedus tried with every ounce of his control to hide his amazement. A hundred memories flooded his mind as he searched for the answer. Faces and names from the past bombarded him so quickly that he felt faint, but he had no doubt as to whom this scout before him was: Androcles.

  Selcor turned to glare at him again, but this time, Creedus saw someone else. The slightest hint of his young grandson rema
ined, lying just under the hardened surface of Selcor’s face.

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