Plow and Sword (3 page)

“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.

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 in 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.

He almost stumbled over the sleeping sentry. The man sat with his back against a tree trunk, legs drawn up and head resting on his knees. His sword lay at his right side where he could grab it in an instant.

If he were awake.

Rorr moved like a disembodied spirit, bent and silently lifted the sword from the ground. The guard stirred, sneezed and then returned to his dreams. Rorr backed from him, the captured sword gripped tightly. It fit his hand poorly. The guard’s fingers were shorter, stubbier, the breadth of his hand far less than that Rorr’s. Not the hand of a swordsman, but of a craftsman.

Suvarian sent pot-throwers to fight farmers. Rorr couldn’t help sneering. He was about to throw the sword away when the guard sneezed again and looked up.

The man died on the point of his own sword, thrashing about noisily before having the good grace to die. Rorr left him impaled on the sword and returned to the camp. None of the soldiers had stirred from the commotion, but that didn’t mean the other sentry hadn’t been alerted. He circled the camp once more, approaching the distant picket high in the tree.

He heard snoring before he got close enough to reach up and grab the man’s ankle. With a quick jerk, he dislodged the man, who fell heavily to land belly-down. Rorr dropped so his knee drove into the small of the man’s back, pinning him. With a quick move, he reached around the struggling man’s throat, caught his chin, and twisted hard to the side. The man died immediately.

Rorr stepped back, panting with the exertion. He felt a little sick to his stomach at the deaths, then remembered what these brigands had done to the Torvans. The entire family might have been murdered. If they hadn’t, they had been driven away from their land and harvest. It was not a choice he would want to make.

He sighed. He knew how he would respond if it came to that. He would leave the homestead behind to save Beeah and the boys. Cursing Thom Torvan for making a similar decision did no good.

He looked through the trees and saw the first hint of dawn—it was likely false dawn, the lightening before a deeper darkness followed by the sun creeping above the horizon. Time crushed down on him as surely as he had thrust his knee into the dead soldier’s back.

Moving faster, making more noise, he returned to the camp. Most of the sleeping men held their swords or lay alongside them, making removal difficult. He poked through the contents of their gear, taking each bowstring he found. The knife slid from its sheath on the back of his buckler and chopped the strings into short pieces. He found the longbows and similarly tended to their strings. Then he began sawing and hacking at the arrows in quivers. A hundred arrows he broke or cut the fletching off.

Only one arrow had been dipped in the oily black substance that had ignited Torvan’s granary. Rorr lifted it from a separate quiver and peered at it in the darkness. A skin sheath prevented air from touching the incendiary liquid. He slung the quiver over his shoulder and settled the arrow, not sure how he could use it.

He took one last look around the camp and knew he had destroyed what he could. The remaining six fighters began to stir as daylight filtered through the trees. Rorr walked steadily to the horses tethered to a rope. His knife rose and came down, its sharp edge slicing through the restraining rope. He waved his arms and spooked the horses.

As they ran off, the men in camp realized something was seriously wrong. They drew swords and reached for bows.

Rorr laughed at the archers’ impotence, but the swordsmen came for him, yelling to be sure all their companions were awake and alert to the danger.

He swung, used his buckler to deflect the nearest soldier’s thrust, then stepped close and drove his blade up under the lowest rib and into a beating heart. Before he yanked the blade free, that heart ceased throbbing. The warrior fell to the ground.

He saw the other five note his expertise, coming to the realization that only through united action might they continue to live.

“To his flanks! Move, damn your eyes!” The soldier bellowing orders from the center was either an officer or someone the others obeyed without question.

Rorr reached into the quiver and used the edge of his blade to peel away the skin sheath around the fire arrow. He waved it around above his head until it ignited. For a moment, the fighters retreated.

He laughed loudly. The light from the fire arrow cast shadows on his face, turning him into something less than human. The instant of their hesitation would be short. He flung the arrow directly at the officer, forcing him to dance back.

In the confusion, Rorr stepped into the forest, found a trail, and fell into a ground-devouring stride. The brigands were slower following, giving him the chance to pop into a clearing, get his bearings off the rising sun, then strike out directly for his own horse.

He stepped up into the saddle and wheeled the mount around just as three pursuers burst out of the woods after him. Rorr had no reason to fight them. They were without horses, at least until they tracked them down.

His heels raked the horse’s flanks and set it galloping in the direction of his farm.

This skirmish was not a battle. The true battle would come when Lord Suvarian learned of his men’s failure. Rorr had to prepare his family for the final fracas. Either they would defeat Suvarian, or Rorr and his family would die.

He put his head down and rode faster for his farm.

“We should leave,” Beeah said, tears in her eyes. “If what you say is true, we can’t fight Lord Suvarian.”

“Who is he?” piped up young Rayallan. The boy looked around curiously. Rorr caught his breath looking into the boy’s face. He saw Ulane there, never quite sure what was going on but interested all the same. And usually wrong when he decided.