The Reaper's Seed: The Sword and the Promise (Book 1) Page 13

  At that moment Gwen turned the corner at the end of the hall and walked Olwen’s direction. Her head hung low as it usually did, but mostly for mourning the death of Pedrig. She wiped a tear from her weary eye and approached Olwen shyly. The scratches on her face from the day before had been cared for but were still quite fresh.

  Extending her hand, Olwen met Gwen and embraced her, blinking back her own tears. There was no social separation between them now, as there once had been. Tucking Gwen’s hair behind her ear, Olwen lifted her chin. “Not even when they had taken us from our home could they claim us. You are far more loved than you believe, my sweet Gwen. Let the light of day brighten your face.”

  Gwen straightened up and allowed a smile to cross her lips. Hope returned and she breathed deeply, releasing her anxiety. “Thank you, my lady. We do have much to be thankful for. Please, forgive my sulking.” She wiped her face with the back of her hand and continued on her way.

  Once Gwen had rounded the corner, Olwen let her tears roll down her cheeks freely, baring her weakness in secret. But her weakness was real, and she longed for the strength that she did not possess, strength that could not be shaken.

  Outside, Wellman too carried on as it did every day, but changed; its eyes were open. A sober air filled the streets; chores once taken for granted were now welcomed. The lives that they had simply been drifting through only a week before were more precious with every breath, because untimely death had again become reality. The funeral of Reed earlier that morning had been a vivid reminder. There was a sense of urgency to live a normal life while it was available. The man carrying a pail of milk and the woman gathering eggs from the chicken coop, like Corred, knew that life in Wellman had changed.

  While crossing the main road that led to the center of town from the west, Corred looked into the distance. As the sun reached its highest point in the sky, he spotted something gliding along the horizon, just above the tops of the trees. What is that!? He stopped in his tracks, straining to see more.

  It was clearly some sort of bird in flight, but for what Corred could make of the creature, it was not only larger than he’d ever seen, but different. Soaring effortlessly over the highest parts of the forest, it dove between two mighty oaks and out of sight.

  The sound of hooves right behind him broke Corred’s concentration. Jumping aside, he made way for a wagon full of firewood. The rider looked at him oddly and half yelled, “What are you doing in the middle of the road?”

  Rising to his toes, Corred ignored him, searching the distant fields. The wagon blocked his view, so he crossed to the other side of the street; nothing. He had the boyish urge to mount his horse and ride straight for the place he’d last spotted the creature, but he pushed it aside. This isn’t exactly the time to explore the woods in search of a bird, no matter how unique it is. With a wry smile, he thought, besides, who would go with me and not think that I’ve lost my mind?

  Gradually becoming aware of how warm it had grown and how thirsty he was, Corred turned north so that his wandering would at last bring him to one of the wells there. From there he would be able to see the Altus Mountains, though their majestic peaks were but a hazy outline. It was a favorite view of Corred’s whenever he had the chance to enjoy it. Perhaps there will be some folks arriving from the Northern Villages. Whatever he found, it was something to keep his mind occupied, and that was what he needed.

  The northern end of Wellman was spread much thinner than the southern side, occupied by many poorer citizens, some of whom found means by working as servants of Lord Wellman. The huts were smaller in most cases, with small gardens along the side or in the back. Only a few owned a horse for any sort of labor or travel, and most had little livestock beside. There was rarely enough work to keep these folks from wanting for something, though they were all better off than most in the western district of Renken.

  Corred passed a garden where a mother and her children were working the soil slowly. For the younger ones, it was nothing but fun, and this alleviated some of the burden for their mother, even bringing a smile to her face.

  Corred bid them good morning, receiving the strongest response from the youngest. With hands held high, he gripped the soil tightly, displaying his mess quite merrily. His mother bowed her chin respectfully, trying not to laugh at her young son as he tossed the dirt into the air. Her daughter was much more conscious of her manners and curtsied with a “Good Morning,” offering some harsh correction to her younger brother in the same breath. He grinned foolishly and took the abuse as some sort of compliment.

  Continuing on, Corred observed several more households gathering the fruits of their labor and turning over those crops which had finished their giving. Quite in contrast to the young children who had been helping their mother, several houses along, an elderly couple worked side by side. They both had well weathered skin, wrinkled and leathery from so much time spent in the elements, and their heads were arraigned in silver, a testament to their many years. The old woman took notice of Corred first and initially gave him a suspicious look.

  “Good day,” Corred said, nodding her direction. With a small wave, he smiled.

  Allowing a weak smile to wrinkle her face further, she held up a dirty hand with her other still clinging to a clump of the weeds that seemed to thrive in all weather.

  Not wanting his work to be distracted for more than a second, her husband looked up for the briefest of moments to a give a tight dip of his chin. The vine he was attempting to reinforce was well filled with ripe peppers, red and green, some of which he had already placed in his grass basket. His old fingers moved slowly but with no less dexterity.

  Corred’s walk took him through pictures of life as it had been in Wellman for generations. Only once or twice did anyone recognize him from his past visits to see his grandfather.

  “Kind, sir?” A soft voice spoke from behind him.

  Looking over his shoulder, Corred stopped and turned to face a young girl and boy who had stepped out from behind a cabin.

  “Yes?” Corred asked as softly. He felt awkward that they were so shy.

  “You’re Corred, aren’t you?” the girl asked. Eyes wide with wonder, her little brother stood just behind, stepping out only to get a better look at Corred’s sword.

  “Yes, I am. And who might you be, miss?” Corred asked, squatting to meet them both at their level.

  “Delian, sir,” she answered with a bit of a gasp. “And this is my little brother.”

  Corred smiled, amused by the fact that she referred to him not by name, but as her little brother. The small boy, no older than three years, blinked curiously. Before Corred could respond they both ran back around the corner of the cabin.

  How do they know my name? Thinking no more of it, he turned to go, but before he could get another step, a man rounded the corner with Delian and her little brother in tow.

  “Excuse me, Corred,” the man said, approaching Corred with a sense of urgency. He pushed aside his long hair with the back of a dirty hand, revealing how young he really was. Extending his right hand in greeting, he hesitated, as it too was quite dirty with the work he had been doing.

  Corred quickly responded and shook the man’s hand firmly.

  “My name is Grady,” he said, standing to his full height which was several inches shorter than Corred. “I believe I owe you a great debt in the rescue of my daughter, Gwen.”

  Corred blushed with honor and discomfort. Nodding a little, he replied, “I was only one of six men who made the ride, and it was my honor to fight for you and your family. Your daughter, Gwen is a brave girl.”

  Grady backed away somewhat and with the most humble strength replied, “She gets her great courage from her mother, you know.” His strong hands, arms and shoulders seemed contrary to his meek and self effacing manner. His whole appearance was that of a man who could wrestle an ox if he set his mind to it. Though not bulky or intimidating, his strength was the deceptive kind.

  Corred nodded again, and
sought to build that man up. “Our enemies were wise to take their captives under cover of darkness, for I am sure they would have been unable to contend with you.”

  “You pay me kind words,” Grady replied. “I’m not an aggressive man, but I do love my family.”

  You may not be aggressive, but I wouldn’t cross you. “I’m pleased to meet you Grady, and pleased more that you and your family are safe.”

  “As am I,” Grady replied, taking Corred’s hand again in his tight grip. “And may it stay that way.”

  Watching the man return to his work, Corred felt another wave of confidence, that a father, a man many years older than himself had stopped him in the street to pay him honor. Having longed to show himself the man he aspired to be, the reality of it caught him off guard.

  With his head held that much higher, Corred cut between properties toward where he best remembered the well to be. He heard horses watering before he could see them. Rounding a newly built cabin, he came upon the sight of several armed men silently watering their horses.

  Men from the Northern Villages? Corred thought. The heavier coats and long bows in their packs seem to say so. The men of the Northern Villages were known for the bows that they made from a type of fir tree unknown in the southern parts of the Lowlands. They were well constructed for the typically longer shots that were necessary for hunting in more open lands.

  Taking notice of Corred right away, one of them with a head of thick messy hair immediately looked at Corred’s sword and then lifted his chin in salutation. He couldn’t have been much older than Corred. Neither he nor his companions carried a sword on their belts, but without too much effort Corred caught sight of a hilt protruding from the saddle pack for two of the three.

  Corred approached cautiously, with his left hand rested on the hilt of his own sword. “Welcome to Wellman,” he said.

  Looking up from where he’d been filling the trough for their horses, the oldest and heaviest of the three stared at Corred for a moment before answering. “Good day to you.” He latched the rope back onto the handle of the bucket and tossed it into the well. Stepping forward he extended his hand in greeting. “Bjorn.” His thick jaw was nearly wider than his ears and his short dark hair stood on end like coarse wire.

  Corred took his hand with as firm a grip as he could but found Bjorn’s hand far too large to actually squeeze. “My name is Corred,” he replied, looking his acquaintance in the eye.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Bjorn pointed to the young man who had taken notice of Corred first. “This is Bernd, and that’s Rickert. We’ve had a good long ride and we’re wondering where there might be some lodging for men who could use a good meal and some rest.”

  Northern Villages it is, Corred concluded. Turning back toward the center of town, Corred motioned to where the highest point of Lord Wellman’s estate could be seen rising above the rooftops. “That tower you see is very near the center of Wellman. In the town square there are several lodgings, and the best would have to be Targen’s Tavern.”

  Before Bjorn could continue the conversation, another rider came from between two cabins and into the main road, headed for the well at a slow walk. His hood was pulled up over his head, but not so much as to shadow his face. Dark stubble covered his jaw, but it was not quite enough to call a beard. His features were sharp and his clothes looked well worn and ordinary. His horse was nothing like him, a rather remarkable creature. The bright white patches that covered its stomach, part of its back, and even one of its ears drew a sharp contrast with the dark brown of his hide. Corred had only seen a few horses like it, rumored to be one in five thousand.

  Judging by Bjorn’s reaction, he could tell that the man was not part of their small party. When Bjorn had evaluated the man in silence, certainly more impressed with his horse than with him, he nodded but did not lift a hand in greeting.

  The stranger nodded back in like fashion, allowing a bit of a smile to curve his lip. Leaned over in his saddle, he did not change his pace, but merely walked up to join the group and water his horse like the three that had arrived before him.

  He must not be a horseman, though perhaps he is also arriving for the gathering, Corred thought. He looks enough like it.

  “Well, Corred,” Bjorn continued, as if the conversations had never paused, “thank you for your kind greeting and for the recommendation of Targen’s Tavern. That is where we’ll stay.” Returning to his horse, he stroked its face and neck as it had its fill of water, appearing to ignore everything else around him.

  Bernd smiled slightly and approached Corred with an extended hand. Under his breath he said, “Don’t mind Bjorn, he gets a little tart when he’s tired.”

  Corred nodded, imagining Einar after a long day’s work. He smiled at the thought. “Understandable.”

  “So, are you from Wellman?” Bernd asked.

  “I am not, but my grandfather lives here and has for many years,” Corred replied.

  “What is the name?” Bernd asked very directly.

  “Creedus,” Corred answered.

  Bernd raised his eyebrows a little. “The one who carries the Sword,” he said.

  Quite used to the response, Corred nodded, directing his attention over Bernd’s shoulder to the fourth rider. He had now dismounted and was already drawing the bucket from the well to replenish the trough. “Bernd, it was nice to meet you. I will look you up tomorrow, perhaps.”

  “You know where I’ll be, and if not, I will see you tomorrow night?” Bernd asked.

  “I will be there with my grandfather,” Corred responded, proudly. “Enjoy your stay here at Wellman. It’s an honor to meet a brother from the Northern Villages.”

  “It is an honor to meet you, Corred, grandson of Creedus,” Bernd replied.

  Watching them all silently as he pulled the bucket up and dumped it into a second trough, the stranger who had arrived last smiled as Bernd and Corred finished their exchange. He pulled off his hood, revealing long hair pulled back from his face. His skin was not weathered so much as it was dirty; he looked as if he had not bathed for some time. Not waiting for Corred to initiate, the man attached the rope to the bucket once more and threw it in. “Good day, friend,” he said.

  “Good day,” Corred quickly replied.

  “I’ll have a drink here for you in a moment,” he said, as if he were a local just stopping by the well after a daily ride.

  “Do you live in Wellman?” Corred asked. I don’t recognize him, and I’ve never seen such a horse.

  “No,” he replied lightly. With long smooth strokes he pulled the bucket up from the bottom of the well.

  “Have you traveled far?” Corred asked.

  “I have,” he replied, again not giving any more information than was needed. After a few more quick pulls, he hoisted the bucket up onto the edge of the stone that surrounded the well, and looked at Corred. “You are thirsty?”

  “Yes, I am,” Corred replied. Seems like a very agreeable fellow. Taking the bucket Corred lifted it to his lips and took a long cold drink. The surge of pain in the back of his head reminded him just how cold well water could get in the fall. Shaking his head to clear his vision, he handed the bucket back.

  “Guess I’ll sip a little slower,” the stranger said with amusement.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty icy,” Corred said, taking a step back as the pain cleared.

  After a mouthful, which he was sure to let warm a little in his mouth first, the stranger asked Corred, “What do people call you?”

  “My name is Corred,” he responded.

  Drying his hand on his shirt, the stranger stuck it out. “I’m pleased to meet you, Corred. That’s a good name.”

  “Thank you,” Corred replied, not used to such a compliment.

  “Named after your father?” the stranger asked.

  “No, my grandfather,” Corred replied.

  The fellow nodded and held the bucket out for Corred to have some more.

  Accepting the offer Corred was sure
not to take too much too fast this time, as refreshing as it was. As he handed it back to the man he asked, “And what is your name?”

  “My name is Remiel,” he replied. With another big mouthful, he set the bucket on the edge of the well and retrieved a canteen from his pack.

  Never heard of you. Corred wanted to ask him outright if he was a member of the Véran, but he maintained his sense of caution. “So are you here to trade?”

  “No,” Remiel responded dumping the remaining water from his canteen on the ground.

  “Do you have family in Wellman?” Corred asked.

  “No, do you?” Remiel asked intently filling his canteen without spilling a drop.

  “I do,” Corred responded. “My grandfather lives here in Wellman, and I often visit him.” Corred cringed a little, realizing he knew nothing about Remiel, but that he was already revealing a lot about himself. Ever since being attacked near Hill Top, he’d felt vulnerable, or at least uncomfortable telling folks about himself, unless he knew them to be trustworthy.

  Replacing his canteen among his belongings, Remiel rubbed his horse’s side as it drank from the trough. With his eyes fixed on Corred’s, Remiel simply smiled before looking past him and at the town all around him. As if giving voice to his thoughts, Remiel said, “Wellman is much like I imagined it would be.”

  Remiel’s piercing gaze unnerved Corred. “Have you never been here before?” he asked, hoping to learn more about his new acquaintance than Remiel already knew about him.

  “No, I haven’t. I have wanted to see Wellman for some time, so it is good to finally be here,” Remiel responded. Whispering to his horse, Remiel moved to now stroking its neck. “Do you know it well? I would very much like to see some of it before I find a place to rest,” he said.

  “I do. I could show you the town,” Corred quickly responded. He was beginning to grow uncomfortable with Remiel, as something about him made Corred uneasy.

  “I would like that,” Remiel responded with a smile. Stroking his horse’s side, he spoke under his breath and the animal stopped drinking. Not bothering to take the reins in his hands, Remiel followed Corred back toward the center of Wellman with his horse right behind him.