Plow and Sword Read Free Page B

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 Ulane’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