by Unknown
“But Ma, those men were killers. They—”
“Work, young man. Now. You too, Rayallan. You weren’t finished sorting through the onions.”
“Aw, Ma, there aren’t any rotten ones.”
“Then start with the potatoes. Small ones in one pile, larger ones in another.”
The two boys went off, but Beeah reached out and stopped her husband. He winced, just a little, as her fingers gripped his forearm.
“What really happened there?” She peeled back his bloody sleeve to reveal the wound he had field-bandaged before returning. “Are the Torvans dead?”
“Didn’t find bodies. They might be dead.” He forced a smile. “Or they might be relaxing on that southern beach, waiting for winter to freeze our bones so they’ll have a laugh on us.”
Beeah started to say something, hesitated, then muttered, “You’re just like Ulane.”
“We are—were—brothers,” he said, unsure of what else to say.
“The plague did so much damage. I thought we were safe. The Torvans, not a one of them caught it. No one else this side of Pitax caught it.”
“Except Ulane.” Rorr hugged her, then pushed back as he became self-conscious about such a display of affection. He realized he was trying to convince himself that the past meant nothing, and that the future didn’t hold a fate like the Torvans’. “There’re fields to be plowed, and I don’t trust Fren to cut a straight row.”
“With that worthless horse, how could he? It wanders from side to side like a drunken gnome. Get on, now.” Making her words light did nothing to brighten the darkness in Beeah’s eyes. Rorr quickly left.
He could deal with a balky plow horse, or the annoying worms that gnawed at the roots of his crop. Even the brigands who had plundered the Torvan farm.
That last worried at him as he walked slowly to the field. Brigands would have stolen, not destroyed. Selling such bounty in Port Ice would have brought enough wealth to keep them in whores and ale for the entire winter. Something about the destruction wasn’t right.
“All hitched and ready to plow,” Fren called, seeing him approach.
“Why didn’t you begin? There’re miles of rows to be plowed.” He bent, caught up a thick, dry clod and tossed it playfully at his stepson. Fren dodged it easily.
“The horse wants you and nobody else.”
“That’s an inventive excuse. Get to moving the rocks at the far side of the field into a stack so I can keep a straight row.”
Rorr slid the reins over his shoulder, took the plow handles, and called to the horse to begin pulling. As terrible a riding horse as this one was, it had strength and surefootedness in the field, and more often than not it dropped a load to help with fertilizing. The first two long rows went well, with the brittle husks cut and turned under the soil to rot and give sustenance to new crops in the spring. On the third, Rorr stopped and stared.
His eyesight was keen, and the approaching riders became visible minutes before his son saw them. Then even the boy could not miss the riders.
“Who are they, Pa?”
“Don’t say a word when they get here. No matter what I say, you obey instantly. Understood?”
“But—”
“Understand?” The edge in his voice made the boy recoil, then nod slowly.
“A thief in livery is still a thief.”
Rorr stepped away from the plow, wiped sweat from his forehead, then faced the four riders. All wore tabards with the same coat of arms he had seen on the brigand’s shield. He started to order Fren to the house, but the lead rider motioned and another rode to a position where such retreat would be cut off.
“Stay close,” Rorr said in a low voice. Louder, “Who might you be?”
“Soldiers of Lord Suvarian, peasant. Show respect for vassals of your lord.”
“There’s no lord to rule over this land. This stretch of the River Kingdoms hasn’t had royalty to govern it since the last border war.”
“That has changed. Suvarian claims this land all the way to Brevoy.”
“The farm is mine. By edict of Duke Gessmen.”
“Who is dead in a border skirmish. How is it you claim ownership through a duke long deceased, yet deny Lord Suvarian’s rule?” The soldier rode closer. Soot lay heavy on his tabard, disguising much of the gerfalcon rampant coat of arms. The man wore leather armor beneath and carried his sword in a scabbard slung from his saddle and under his left leg. The scar on his face, his lean body and quick, nervous movements, told of a soldier anticipating battle.
“I want only to farm my land in peace.”
“Peace,” the rider said, sneering. “There can be none as long as you befoul Lord Suvarian’s land.”
“This is my land,” Rorr said stubbornly.
“Pa, he—”
“Quiet,” Rorr snapped. He saw the outrider’s amused expression, but the soldier watched like the bird sigil on his chest. It would take but an instant to draw his sword and swoop down should Fren bolt for the house.
“My lord—your lord—claims all this land for grazing. He has a vast herd and supplies the war effort along the Sellen.”
“Then grain would be in demand. I can sell—”
“Milord doesn’t want your filthy grain. It’s not even fit for his cattle. If you leave this land now, it will return to grass by the summer and provide proper fodder.”
“Where would you have us go?” Fren pushed past Rorr and stared at the soldier, too young and foolish to understand fear.
“What does it matter? Leave. Your neighbors have departed.”
“The Torvans? Where are they?” Rorr saw the smirk and how the warrior unconsciously touched the soot on his armor.
“It doesn’t matter. Perhaps they have gone to the Boneyard. If you want to avoid meeting them in Pharasma’s sweet embrace, leave.”
“No!” Fren jerked free of his stepfather and moved forward, fists small and bony.
“One of them has sand in the gizzard,” another soldier said, amused.
“Give him a sword, Darrotte,” ordered the leader. “I would see if their skill matches their fine words.”
The warrior reached behind his saddle and whipped out a short sword. He held it high to catch the sun, flashed it in Rorr’s direction, then sent it wheeling through the air. It landed point down in the plowed ground at Rorr’s feet.
Rorr held Fren back to keep him from seizing it. “We’re farmers,” he said. “What chance would we have against four warriors?”
“The best in Lord Suvarian’s army,” bragged the leader.
“It would be doubly foolish for a farmer to fight you, then.”
“They would drive us from our land!” Fren showed his outrage, but Rorr tightened his grip to hold the boy back.
“Keep the sword. You might need it—as you leave Lord Suvarian’s pastureland!” The leader laughed, pulled hard on his horse’s reins and motioned for his men to follow. They galloped away.
Only when they were out of sight did Rorr release his stepson.
“You can’t let them chase us away. This was my father’s land! My real father!” Fren’s eyes welled with unshed tears of rage.
“This is what I think of their weapons.” Rorr yanked the sword from the dirt, placed the point at an angle against the ground, and stomped down hard. The blade broke raggedly a few inches above the hilt. Rorr flung the piece in his hand as far away from him as he could.
“Coward,” Fren grated. He ran for the house.
Rorr let the boy go. It would do no good to explain that these four meant nothing. They were messengers only.
But messengers could be dangerous. Rorr heaved a deep sigh, then returned to his plowing. The cold wind blowing from the north chilled him more than ever.
∗ ∗ ∗
Rorr poked at the food on his plate. Both Fren and Rayallan had chosen not to sit at the table with him. He understood but did not approve. He looked up at Beeah and said, “This is our land.”
“It’s Ula
ne’s,” she said, not meeting his gaze. “There’s no reason for you to fight for it.”
“It’s our land,” he said harshly. “Ulane is dead. Would you have me die at the end of a sword wielded by those brigands?”
“Fren said they were a lord’s officers. Knights.”
“You would have me fight them? Or give in to them? Make up your mind.”
“Do as you see fit. You always do.” Beeah threw down her spoon and left Rorr alone at the table. He dropped his own spoon and went outside into the cold night air. The stars burned brightly above, and he made out the patterns he had used for so long to navigate. The pointers showing the route northward beckoned.
“This is my farm,” he said as he looked over darkened fields. It mattered little to him whether the thief called himself a lord or a brigand. Theft was theft, and he would not be chased away.
He went to the barn, saw a shovel Fren had left out, and picked it up. The night’s dew would cause the tool to rust, but he didn’t put it away inside the barn. Instead he walked, slowly at first and then with longer strides, to the small hill a hundred yards behind the house. At the summit he looked down at the grave.
He had buried his brother here. Then he had married his brother’s wife. Rorr had not intended that, but he had come to love Beeah. He was less sure of her affection for him. A widow with two young children faced a difficult life.
The past year had been good. Crops, improvement on barn and house, long days and enjoyable nights—he thought enjoyable for them both, though he could never tell.
This was his land. His family’s.
Voices carried up from downslope. Swords glinting in the starlight, two men made their way toward his barn. Their words drifted up to him.
“…burn him out.”
“We should kill them all, as we did the others. Suvarian would approve.”
“You’re a bloodthirsty one, Darrotte.”
Rorr heard admiration, not denunciation, in that simple statement. He gripped his shovel with both hands and hurried down the hill toward the barn.
The two soldiers heard his approach and greeted him with leveled swords.
“The farmer must be sleepwalking,” Darrotte said. “Why else would he confront two of Lord Suvarian’s warriors?”
His companion chuckled. “We dare not tell the lord of this one’s death. He would accuse us of drowning kittens.”
“You have one chance only,” Rorr said, squaring off and lifting the shovel. “Leave and I won’t kill you.”
“Ho! A threat! He won’t hurt us!”
“I said I won’t kill you,” Rorr clarified.
Darrotte smiled. “No, plowboy. You won’t.”
The soldier with Darrotte rushed forward, sword lifted for the kill. Rorr saw flashes of light and shadow, but the path of the sword was obvious. He swung the shovel, deflecting the sword off its blade with a long blue spark. The impact staggered the soldier, letting Rorr sidestep, then thrust out his foot.
The soldier crashed to the ground and the cutting edge of the shovel descended, chopping into the back of his exposed neck. The slight resistance of the yielding spine signaled another death at Rorr’s hand.
The farmer ducked, avoided Darrotte’s savage circular slash, then drove forward, arms circling the warrior’s waist. With a grunt, Rorr stood and squeezed. Hard. The sudden constriction caused Darrotte to drop his sword.
Rorr tightened his hold around the small of the man’s back even more. Work-hardened muscles driven by fury powered his grip. The sound of thunder drowned out the man’s cries. Rorr felt something give. He relaxed, dropped the still living man to the ground.
“My back. You broke it.” Darrotte’s voice was tight with pain and fear, but strangely calm. “You will die, farmer. My lord will kill you slowly.”
“No,” Rorr said, picking up the shovel. “He won’t.”
The edge of the blade rose and fell.
Rorr stepped back and looked at the two dead men. They should be buried, but to what purpose? Not to hide their deaths, certainly. Lord Suvarian had sent them on a mission. When they didn’t return, others would be dispatched.
With these deaths, Rorr realized, the fight was not over. It had just begun.
Chapter Three: Relics of the Past
Rorr used the shovel to turn dirt amid the tree roots until he struck the buried packages. He dropped to his knees and used his hands to brush away the remaining dirt, revealing several small packets and one larger one. That last one he ignored, instead pulling the oilcloth wrappings free from one of the smaller bundles.
Inside lay bronze wrist guards. He ran his fingers over their nicked, rough surfaces. At one time they had been smooth. Proper care demanded that he smooth down the deep cuts and curls peeled back from the surface.
Rorr settled them on his forearms without further consideration of proper appearance. They would do. Greaves followed. He sat with his legs thrust out as he adjusted them. A long-bladed knife came next, its keen edge gleaming in the starlight. Rorr had always taken better care of it than his wrist guards. The final package he drew forth, blowing off dust and dirt, was a small buckler. The faded sigil couldn’t be discerned.
At one time, that would have bothered him. No longer.
Settling the strap around his left wrist, Rorr turned the buckler this way and that, feeling the strain on muscles unused for a year and longer. He picked up the knife and sheathed it behind the buckler, then stood.
The greaves felt awkward on his legs, and the right wrist guard chafed. If he had worn it earlier, the half-orc’s arrow wouldn’t have penetrated his flesh. More than once, the brass guards had safely turned away arrows or sword thrusts. They might have to again.
He returned to the bodies of Lord Suvarian’s brigands. No matter that they claimed to be on a royal mission—Rorr knew them for what they were. Killers. Thieves. Highwaymen, and nothing more. He dragging the bodies out to the field where he had already plowed, laying them heel to head, then covered that row with dirt. It provided a sorry grave for the soldiers, and animals would come to dine on the carrion. Rorr wanted only to keep the corpses out of sight from his wife and children.
Soon enough they would see death. Of that he was certain, but until then he would shield them however he could.
With long strides, he went to the nearby coppice most likely to shelter the soldiers’ horses. A small smile came to his lips when he saw the steeds. It took only a few minutes for the horses to accept him. Rorr selected one and mounted. The other would serve as a second plow horse afterward.
Afterward.
Rorr couldn’t find the trail taken by the two soldiers, so he simply relaxed his hold on the reins and let the horse have its head. It would return to the camp it had left. If not, he suspected it would take him in the proper general direction. As he bounced along, he half slept, letting his mind settle. There had been other battles, and he knew the need to be rested.
Yet in those other battles, his wife and their children had not been at risk. This bored into Rorr’s brain and rooted around, turning him uneasy. Some might say marrying his brother’s widow was wrong, but he had known Beeah long before Ulane wed her, and he would not leave his brother’s wife to starve, or take up with a lesser man. Their sons were strong and smart and would make good farmers one day. Ulane was the better farmer, but Rorr had not been a poor student. Life on their childhood farm near Gralton had been easier, with better soil, longer seasons, and access to irrigation. But for all the challenges here, Rorr knew this farm could be proved, and they would all flourish.
Asmodeus take upstarts like Suvarian, who thought to steal what he could not otherwise own.
Rorr perked up when he saw a pair of low campfires in the distance. Dawn was still two hours from arriving, fresh and cold. Again, he resented Lord Suvarian’s intrusion on his schedule. The fields had to be properly prepared, and winter cover planted to ready them for spring.
As sharp as his eyesight was, he saw no movement i
n the camp. No dim shape passed in front of the glowing coals in the fire pits. Those in the camp slept. Did they follow military procedure enough to post sentries? What of warding spells? It wasn’t unusual for a minor sorcerer or priest to travel with a war party and cast simple spells or offer healing. Putting out a simple ward spell was a moment’s work, even for an apprentice.
The closer he rode, the more he doubted any magic had been employed. They thought they were safe in their numbers. Force of arms against dirt farmers was enough to correct any small misjudgment in that respect. What did they fear a man armed only with a pitchfork, when they had bows and arrows, swords and shields?
He slipped from horseback and grabbed the reins, leading the reluctant horse away from the rude corral at the far side of the camp. Undoubtedly the horse remembered being fed and watered there. Rorr secured the reins in such a way that the horse could nibble at tough grass and dying plants, then advanced on foot.
Buckler kept low and away from the fire to prevent a warning reflection, he moved to within a few paces of the sleeping men. A slow count of dark blanket-covered lumps told Rorr that six men slept. He backed away, circled the camp, and counted horses.
Eight.
Two sentries had been posted away from the camp, but neither had spotted him as he approached. Rorr considered his route to the camp and decided that the guards either slept on duty—a crime punishable by twenty lashes in most armies—or he had inadvertently chosen the proper direction where each picket thought the other had returned to camp.
If each sentry made a half circuit of the camp, he decided that the first had to be some distance from the camp amid a tangle of thorn bushes. No soldier waited at such a place. Rorr looked up into the tree above the thicket. A slow smile came to his lips. A dark knot lodged in the crook of the trunk and first limb could only be a large hunting cat—or a sleeping soldier.
“A man may try to forget the past. But his arms remember.”
Rorr slowly paced in the opposite direction. Pulling a guard from the tree was easy enough, but the noise would alert the others. Better to deal with the second guard, if he had remained on the ground.
