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

  “May I take your coats, kind sirs?” A maidservant asked, carrying out her duty for the evening.

  “Thank you,” Creedus said.

  “Thank you, miss,” Corred followed.

  “Gentlemen, follow me.” Lord Wellman led them through the front hall and to the back of the mansion, where an ornate staircase led to the upper levels of the house. Corred took a longing glance at the stairs, wanting only to see Olwen descend them. Little else was on his mind.

  Though appearing rough on the outside, with its stone architecture and heavy, crude beams, Lord Wellman’s mansion was well adorned on the inside. Where there was wood, there were carvings. Every wall was decorated with some trophy or relic telling the history of the town, from the armor of warriors to the portraits of past lords and their wives. The hard wood floors were covered with fine woven rugs and the hides of bears taken from the Bryn Mountains. There were ornate drapes at every doorway and window, and even the massive crossbeams above were decoratively fashioned.

  In the east wing of the mansion was the family dining room, much smaller than the banquet hall, which was found in the west wing, customarily used for entertainment. A large wooden table at the center of the room was filled with every good food available: freshly killed venison, duck, loaves of bread with butter, gravy, carrots, onions, potatoes, tomatoes from earlier that summer, stewed apples, and wine. Each place at the table was set. The smells beckoned them to partake.

  Before sitting, Lord Wellman spoke a word of thanks and blessed the food. His voice cracked with emotion in the effort. In the midst of the loss of his eldest son, he voiced his gratefulness for the preservation of his family and the safe return of Tristan and Olwen.

  The gentlemen present bowed their heads in respect for his suffering. Creedus alone watched Lord Wellman’s face as he spoke, more aware than the rest of having lost a beloved friend.

  Just as his words began to grow downcast, Lord Wellman turned to speaking of hope in the Promise, as if for the first time. “And may he who will come to redeem us, come soon. For in this promise we find strength and reason for vigilance. May we not let our swords collect dust or our gaze fix on anything less.”

  Observing one man, then the next, he appeared stunned by his own words. To bring conclusion to what had become a short and impromptu speech, he awkwardly added, “And may we never grow tired of such things.” For a moment, he was one of the Véran. Though he was not an antagonist of the Promise, there were few leaders in those days that spoke of such things publicly. It was like a lost heritage, a dying language.

  An “Amen” resounded at the table in response to his words.

  The agreement had its effect on Lord Wellman, and he sat with the remains of a slight smile. “Gentlemen, friends, please help yourselves.” And with Lord Wellman’s blessing they broke bread.

  * * * * *

  Hours before dawn, just before the fourth watch, Lowell came upon the city limits of Port. The sole lantern at the western watch was burning brightly and the guard there was on his feet with his spear in hand as Lowell entered his view. The soldier’s helm was polished metal, and his coat was a mix of dark purple and gold thread, the colors of Port. He extended his spear and took a step in Lowell’s direction.

  Recognizing the guard who was on duty, Lowell raised his hand in salute. Without slowing his approach he said, “I’ve come to see a lord to be.”

  At this greeting the guard lowered his spear as if the rider he’d seen approach was no longer even there. As Lowell passed by, the guard re-entered a small, three-sided stone hut where a fellow watchman was sitting by the fire.

  Lowell heard him say, “Just a local of no consequence,” as he passed by. He smiled at the belittling and rode on toward the city limits.

  Port was laid out much like Wellman, but with far more glamour and wealth on display in its structure. The town hall, which more closely resembled a castle than a hall, was at the center of the city. Port’s officials and all the wealthiest of the region lived in the city square, which was comprised of mansions, storehouses and stables. The markets and trading streets surrounded the city square, and the citizens of Port lived in every direction beyond. The poorest in Port, whom were quite well off by the standards of Renken’s western district, lived on the outskirts. It was to one of these cabins that Lowell steered his mount.

  The plains surrounding Port were quiet and as far as he could see in the moonlight, not a creature was stirring. The smell of smoke from Port’s many fires grew stronger as Lowell approached the side of the cabin and there tied his horse to a small post. Rounding the front of the cabin cautiously, he stood aside as he softly rapped on the door.

  At first no sound came from within to suggest that he’d been heard, so Lowell knocked a second time, but no louder than the first. Within seconds the door opened inward a few inches. A low voice asked, “What’s your business?”

  Responding in a whisper, Lowell said, “To reform the house of Lord Raven.”

  The door instantly opened wider, but no one stood in the entrance to welcome him.

  Lowell slipped inside and shut the door behind him very softly.

  The cabin was one room with a fire place along the back wall and several chairs scattered about. Just behind the door stood one of Port’s guard, dressed like the one who had been manning the watch point. In front of Lowell and next to the fire, with his back to the wall sat a man dressed in dark robes. Leaning forward so that the light of the fire would illuminate his face, he said, “I’ve been waiting for an hour.” His tone was displeased, but not angry. His whitening hair stood in great contrast to his youthful looking face, which bragged of a young man no more than forty years of age. His skin was not wrinkled or weathered at all.

  “I rode hard as soon as I was able to gain dismissal from Lord Raven’s presence,” Lowell responded blandly.

  “Things are going according to plan then?” the white haired man replied.

  “Yes,” Lowell responded, but offered no additional explanation.

  After a moment’s silence, the man replied, “You are all so very talkative, you scouts.” Leaning back into the shadows, he continued, “Your Captain has once again arranged for us to meet in order to let you know what progress we are making here in Port. It greatly influences your work in Renken. Please, have a seat.”

  The guard behind Lowell pushed a chair toward him. Cautiously watching him then back up to the door again, Lowell slowly sat before giving the man by the fire his attention.

  “The army you have helped to build,” he began, commending Lowell, “is ready. Your Captain is set to move in little more than two days’ time. The caves will be emptied, and those who have made known their resistance to what must happen will be removed. I have convinced, bargained, and threatened most of Port’s wealthiest to follow my lead, and those officials on the council who pose any problems will be dealt with likewise. As soon as we are able, a force will move on Renken.” He spoke in a calm voice given the gravity of his announcement. “And so, any more recruits you can send our way by tomorrow night we will take, but after that your mission reaches its end.”

  Lowell nodded, as if that was all he needed to do to give complete consent.

  The white-haired man folded his hands in his lap and asked, “What of Lord Raven and Renken?”

  Lowell crossed his thin arms and gave report. “Renken is just as ready to fall. The city is divided against itself, the poor against the rich. They live together because they have nowhere to go, but it is a city without roots. Even so, some of the Véran live there, and with their help, Lord Raven and his guard could unite the city in a time of need.”

  “Lord Raven is a supporter of the Véran now?” the man asked, disappointed. “That would be a change for the worse.”

  “Not a supporter, but a respecter,” Lowell said.

  After a pause of silence, the man said, “Which is exactly why your greatest task in Renken will be your last, in Renken. Do you have a plan?”

&
nbsp; Without even shifting, Lowell responded, “I am a scout of Mornoc, chosen in the service of Ahriman to bring about his will and rightful rule. I will carry out my task without fail and report back to my captain’s command.”

  The white-haired man leaned forward from the wall once again to where his face could be seen in the firelight and smiled. “I believe you. You know, Lowell really isn’t a strong enough name for you, I don’t think.”

  Lowell’s expression remained fixed and emotionless. “It is not my name.”

  The white-haired man just smiled. “A new horse has been brought for you, so that you can be back in Renken by mid-day tomorrow. It will be just outside, next to yours.”

  Standing to go, Lowell nodded. “Long live Mornoc, the rightful king of Amilum.” With that, he opened the door slowly and stepped outside into the cold night air.

  Chapter 9

  The sound of the bubbling brook soothed the mare’s nerves as she and her colt huddled together.

  Lanhard offered them both some apple, which they eagerly took. He was still at work, stroking one then the other. With gentle hands he continued earning their trust.

  “Save some apple for me,” Gernod said over his shoulder from the campfire.

  Lanhard ignored his brother’s complaint as if he had been a cricket in the background.

  Bernd acted on his brother’s request and offered one from his own pack. “Here.” He tossed it to him over the flames. “I think I’ll have one too. It’s been a successful day.” Carving off a slice with his knife he smiled. “I love it when things go according to plan.”

  “Likewise,” Gernod agreed, taking the biggest bite he could.

  Lanhard paid little attention, but rather checked and re-checked the ropes on their new horses where they were both tied to the remains of a fallen tree.

  They had made camp on the outskirts of the foothills, only a few miles from where they had made their catch. The night sky was again clear and bright, casting a glow on the grass around them.

  “So, what do you think of her, Lanhard? Will she be good for breeding? She seems agreeable enough for a wild catch,” Bernd mused as he carefully carved away at his apple.

  “She was quick to trust, especially for having a colt still dependent on her. I’m impressed with her gentle nature.” Lanhard patted the mare on her neck and joined his brothers at the fire. “Time will tell.”

  “It’s hard not to trust you, little brother, with your big, pretty, innocent eyes, carrot in hand. I would have fallen for you,” Gernod jested, nudging him.

  Lanhard was serious when he answered. “She really did trust quickly, quite unlike most catches we’ve made.” He watched the two horses interact at the edge of the fire’s light. Running his hands through his hair, he gave a yawn.

  “I agree,” Bernd said. “It’s also been a long day.” He whittled a few more pieces off of his apple and tossed the core into the fire where it hissed on the hot coals.

  The light winds from the west had shifted and were now coming from the north, a steady, cool breeze.

  Gernod placed some more wood on the fire to keep it going into the night, and they all went through their routines of preparation for sleeping under the night sky.

  Bernd turned in first, as usual. “Bless the women and children, goodnight.”

  Gernod followed, pulling his blanket up over his head. “And may it not rain while we sleep. Goodnight.”

  Lanhard did what he always did. Slowly making his bed, he soaked up the night air with his senses. Tonight he was watching for the sake of the horses.

  The mare and colt still stood close to each other, quietly observing their new situation. They would eventually sleep as well, once they realized they were not going anywhere.

  Lanhard tucked himself under his covers, hiding from the cold. After recounting the day’s events and imagining the next, his thoughts began to drift to the stars and his heavy eyes slowly closed. The bubbling of the brook remained constant, lulling them all to sleep.

  * * * * *

  From the edge of a bluff a stone’s throw away, Hildan’s soldier lurked in the grass. Watching the campfire closely, he hugged the ground, keeping to the east so as not to be winded by the horses. Carrying out Hildan’s orders, the soldier was alone. He held his long spear flat, taking care not to provide any outline against the night sky. His axe was on his back, slung tightly around his shoulders to hold it in place as he crept along the ground.

  It had been over an hour since he had seen the horsemen move in the light of the fire, and now it was no more than a pile of coals with a small flame licking the air.

  The soldier slowly worked his way down to the stream. The breeze through the grass and the rolling stream hid any sound that he made. At twenty-five yards, he stopped, eying the horses that were tied to a large fallen tree. For what felt like hours he waited, crouching still in the grass, watching their movements. They had bedded down, but were nervous and not sleeping like the rest. Rubbing his spear with his thumb, he itched for an opportunity to hurl it through the air. Warily, he pulled his axe off of his back and readied himself for an attack. He could not wait for the horses any longer.

  Gripping his axe in one hand and his spear in the other, he clenched his teeth.

  * * * * *

  Lanhard awoke with a start. Without moving a muscle he looked at the mare and colt. They were bedded down. There was no movement. But a chill ran down his spine, clearing his senses. Something was wrong. Instinctively, he reached for his knife.

  The mare perked up. With a snort, she pointed her ears forward. The colt beside her rose to his feet and stared into the dark with wide eyes and a rigid back.

  Gernod was startled by the commotion and was on his feet as if he had never been sleeping.

  A dark figure now stood against the night sky on the opposite bank of the creek.

  “Look out!” Gernod yelled.

  Bernd threw his blanket into to the air and rolled to one knee just as a long spear pinned it to the ground, narrowly missing him. He rose to his feet, shifting this way and that to find his attacker. His sword was in his hand.

  The attacker lunged from the opposite side of the bank and into the glow of the fire with an axe raised in the air.

  The mare and colt went wild, wrenching their necks in an attempt to escape.

  Running right past them, the dark specter made Lanhard his next target.

  Lanhard hurled his knife toward him and dove for his bow and arrows, which he had stowed with his pack for the night. He had nothing to ward off the blows of an axe.

  Bernd interceded and met the attacker’s axe mid swing. Sparks flew as the blades met, dashing the night’s peaceful silence.

  One blow was met with the other as Bernd warded off the vicious assault.

  Lanhard found his bow and knocked an arrow.

  Gernod rounded the fire pit with a broken branch from the fallen tree that held the wild horses captive. Wielding his crude club, he too entered the fray.

  Seeing that he was now surrounded, their foe fought all the harder, knocking Bernd’s sword to the ground with a swift blow.

  Bernd lost his balance, tripped backwards, and fell into the fire, showering sparks into the air. With a cry of pain he rolled aside quickly, smacking his burning shirt until he could wrap it in a nearby blanket to smother the flame.

  With fell swoops, Gernod stepped into his brother’s place.

  Unable to defend against the force of his new combatant, the assassin received a blow to the shoulder that rendered one of his arms useless. Striking back in desperation, he broke Gernod’s weapon in two, nearly taking his leg with it.

  Lanhard released an arrow in the dark.

  It found the man’s heart and brought him to his knees. Grabbing his mortal wound, he let out a groan and died where he fell.

  The wild horses continued to tug at their cords, letting out one whinny after another, filled with fear. It would take more than carrots to calm them now. The other horse
s had run to the outskirts of the skirmish.

  For a moment they all braced themselves for more. But when nothing followed, Bernd looked at the spear that stood driven into the ground where he had been sleeping. With a foot on his blanket, he pulled it out of the ground with his good arm. After a good look at its craft, he tossed it aside. “Thieves don’t carry weapons like this.”

  “Who was this man?” Gernod asked with heavy breath. He observed his fallen assailant with fearful respect. Picking up the axe, he held it close to the light of the fire to observe its design. On either side of the well-sharpened blade, at its base, there were carvings.

  “Hildan,” Gernod read quietly.

  At the name Bernd’s eyes grew wide and the color left his face. “A soldier of Mornoc.” He whispered just loud enough to be heard.

  Lanhard stood in shock. He had never before killed a man, much less a soldier of Mornoc. The horror of it showed in his expression.

  Bernd looked at his younger brothers. “We need to leave now.”

  “What of our catch?” Gernod asked. He tossed the shards of his club on the ground next to the soldier.

  “Let them both loose, they will slow us down and wake every fiend within earshot.” Bernd tore a piece off of his blanket, gritted his teeth, and wrapped his burnt arm. Picking up his sword, he sheathed it and grabbed all of his things.

  With a whistle they called their horses back from the surrounding fields.

  Lanhard found his knife on the bank of the stream and regretfully cut the wild horses loose.

  At first they shifted about, unsure of their regained freedom.

  “Yah!” Lanhard stepped toward them quickly with raised hands, destroying in an instant the trust he had gained. They bolted into the night.

  Bernd kicked dirt on the fire as Gernod stowed the soldier’s axe among his things.