Plow and Sword Read Free Page A

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