Chapter One: Smoke on the Horizon

It took several minutes for the cougar’s ululating screech to make Rorr look up from his autumn plowing. The day was unseasonably warm for Neth, and sweat trickled down his back. He knew the heat was an illusion—cutting through the dried brown chaff remaining in his field and plowing it under for spring fertilizer had to be completed soon, before snow buried the land. Already at night the wind off the distant Lake of Mists and Veils cut through even a well-padded jacket and brought tears to unprotected eyes. Soon enough a heavy doublet would be necessary when venturing outside the comforting warmth of his small farmhouse.

If he didn’t complete the turning of the soil to provide composting, the thin, rocky dirt would be worthless in Pharast and he would be forced to grow a cover crop—perhaps oats—and let a valuable portion of his farm lie fallow if he wanted cash crops another year. Rorr cursed himself for not undersowing, but too much repair work had to be done on the barn to attend to every detail. After two of his plow horses died of the wasting disease, there had scarcely been time to plow the more productive of his two large fields. Even working his two stepsons until they moaned, he hadn’t accomplished enough.

He dragged his arm over his forehead to mop sweat, then wanted to clap his hands over his battered ears—or what remained of them. The cougar refused to be quiet. Rorr stretched to his full height, but that was not enough by half to reveal the big cat that stayed just beyond his sight at the edge of the woods.

He walked around his remaining plow horse and patted the thick neck, noting how the coat had grown matted and tangled. He’d have to curry the burrs out of the mane—or better yet, have Fren or Rayallan do it. If either of his boys had shown any sign of slacking, he would have demanded the chore of them immediately, but both worked sunup to sundown, as he did.

It was going to be a cold winter.

The cougar’s scream brought him around, all worry of the coming ice and frigid wind forgotten.

Grumbling, he unhitched the horse and vaulted easily onto its back. His bowed legs fit perfectly around the horse’s bulging flanks. At least one creature on his farm ate well, and why not? With its two companions dead, there was no reason to withhold the horse’s fodder.

“You are our salvation,” he said, bending low and whispering in the horse’s ear. The large ear flicked as if a fly had buzzed near. The horse turned a huge brown eye back and stared unblinking at him, as if wondering why he had mounted and didn’t insist on plowing still more. Half the field remained to be turned under.

Rorr sat straight and used the added height to cast a sharp eye along the far line of trees. One day he would cut those trees and expand the field, but taking out stumps was tedious work, better left to days when the crops were growing and all the work consisted of plucking bugs off the green leaves and listening to the corn groan with the speed of its growth.

“Fren!” He looked around for his older son. At the far side of the field, the youth of fifteen summers leaned on the handle of a shovel. Rocks had migrated up during the past summer and required removal. “Fren, do you see it?”

He pointed to the trees and past.

“Smoke,” the boy called back. “From the direction of the Torvan farm.”

“Come on. We’ll ride over to see if there’s trouble.” The Torvans were good neighbors, generous with seed and advice to a man who had long been away from the earth and growing. Rorr found Ganley Torvan, Thom’s wife, abrasive—but then, with only one arm, life couldn’t be easy for her. Their children were younger than even Rayallan’s twelve years, and did little that he could see to help either their father or mother. Rorr felt blessed by Shelyn for his two boys, and for Beeah.

Fren ran, kicked hard, and vaulted up to land behind his stepfather. Rorr had to reach back and grab to keep the boy from toppling off the other side.

“Hang on,” Rorr said, snapping the reins and putting his heels to the horse. It moved at a plow horse pace for a few yards, then began to trot at its top speed.

“You’re not going to chastise me for almost falling off?” Fren hesitated to hold around Rorr’s waist, though he did not easily adapt to the uneven gait.

“Some are natural horsemen. Others learn. You’ll be one of the latter.”

“Did you have to learn?” Fren asked. “Or did you race a courser before you married Ma?”

Rorr laughed. “Seldom have I ridden a horse better than this one, and always I was glad for it. It takes less time than you might imagine to become footsore.”

The boy’s hold improved, and Rorr urged the horse to pick up speed. The rising smoke was an ominous, greasy black.

They found the main road and made better time, but Rorr slowed when he came to Torvan’s gate. It lay in the middle of the double-rutted road, ripped from the post. Several feet of fence had been trampled.

“Their cattle will get out,” Fren said, not understanding what he saw.

“You should dismount, boy.”

“Why, Pa?”

Rorr would normally have been pleased at hearing the term from his stepson, but just now he had other concerns.

“Do it.” He swept his arm back and slid the boy off the horse’s rump. Fren landed hard but kept his balance.

“You have no right—!” the boy began, but Fren was speaking to his back. Rorr trotted forward, the quickest gait the plow horse could muster.

“Fren’s a good boy, but he has a lot to learn about the world.”

The main house was hidden from the road by a stand of trees desperately harboring leaves against the encroaching winter, but the instant he rode past their screen, heat from the burning house forced him to look away. Throwing up his arm to shade his eyes, he turned back toward the inferno. The building was already consumed—if anyone had been inside, they had found their own funeral pyre.

Riding a safe distance from the house, he circle around to the barn. A coldness settled in his belly when he saw the pigs and chickens slaughtered on the ground. Insects crawled up to feast, and carrion birds had already plucked delicate morsels from eye socket and haunch. The smell of death was hidden by the acrid smoke billowing from behind.

“Torvan!” His call was swallowed by the crackle and roar of the burning house. These flames had not been lit by some carelessly placed oil lamp or spark from a pipe. He called again, knowing there would be no reply but still hoping.

He slid his leg over the horse’s neck and hopped lightly to the ground. His bowed legs moved with precision and resolve as he quickly looked into the barn. More slaughtered animals. He let out a sigh when he saw how cruelly Torvan’s plow horse had been mutilated. It had been strong and of an age to last a dozen more seasons. A waste.

Cries from behind the barn sent him racing around the two-story building. He stopped under a carefully painted hex sign supposed to turn away evil. If anything, it had attracted it.

Four men astride warhorses worked to light a torch, which they clearly intended to toss into the granary. None saw Rorr as he moved forward.

Torvan wasn’t a good farmer, but he had six sons and twice the acreage Rorr did. Their harvest had been bountiful, yet these men with their leather armor and short, businesslike swords intended to destroy what could keep a family of eight alive through the cruel winter.

He reached the hindmost rider, grabbed and caught leather straps fastening the armor around his body. Powerful muscles bunched, and the warrior was lifted from the saddle and hurled through the air. The clank of his sword hitting the ground was as loud as the snapping of bones—almost.

The three remaining warriors turned at the unexpected disturbance. For an instant they didn’t understand what had happened. Rorr stepped close to a second one—the warrior holding the torch—and caught his foot as it rested in the stirrup. He twisted viciously and forced the rider to the ground.

“We missed a plowboy,” another warrior said sarcastically.

“You set fire to the house. Where’s the family that lived there?” Rorr spoke but continued to move with deceptive slowness. He caught a third man’s wrist as he reached to unsheathe his sword. That one joined his two companions on the ground.

The one who had spoken backed his horse from Rorr and swung a triangular shield about. Rorr didn’t recognize the escutcheon, but he did know better than to reach for this soldier. The bottom edge of the shield had been honed like a razor, and could slice through flesh and bone easily.

Instead of attacking the rider, Rorr swept his leg about in a powerful circle and kicked the horse’s front leg just above the cannon bone. From the way the horse reared, he had both frightened it and delivered great pain. It landed heavily on its front legs and bucked, throwing the rider. His shield flew through the air like a deadly silver blood kite and skidded in the dirt just shy of the granary.

“Where’s the Torvan family?”

He grabbed one warrior as he struggled to stand and lifted him, fingers sliding expertly under his gorget to dig into his throat. He repeated the question but received only gurgles. Blood began trickling from the side of the man’s mouth. Rorr tossed him away—he wasn’t likely to get answers when the man had bitten through his own tongue.

“You will die,” the shield-man spat. “No one attacks soldiers of our liege and lives!”

Rorr frowned. He knew of no lord holding sway over this land. The ebb and flow of royalty meant little to anyone plowing the land, fighting locusts and drought and wheat intermixed with water-hungry weeds.

The three who could still stand spread in front of him, drawing weapons and advancing.

“Does this lord of yours murder and pillage?” Rorr pointed to the still burning house.

“They refused to pay the taxes owed.”

That settled it. Rorr had heard nothing of any lord demanding taxes, and his farm adjoined the Torvan acreage. These were brigands and nothing more. As they came closer, he studied their stance, how they held their weapons and the set to their bodies. They had military training and were used to fighting in unison. That elevated them above common highwaymen.

But not by much.

The one on Rorr’s left attacked, thinking to distract him. Rorr knelt, used a leg sweep like the one that had brought down the horse and its rider, but didn’t stop after he felt his heel strike the back of the fighter’s knee. From his crouch, he launched himself at the man attacking from the right flank. His shoulder caught the man in the belly and bowled him over. As they hit the ground, locked together, Rorr clawed at the brawny wrist holding the sword and wrested it away. A quick roll and he came to his feet with the sword up in time to parry a two-handed overhead cut.

The blades collided and sent sparks dancing away. The impact jarred his attacker; Rorr twisted about and dropped his sword in favor of delivering a hard punch to the man’s temple. Delicate bone crushed and drove into brain. The fighter sagged to the ground.

“Rorr!” Suddenly Fren was behind him, voice high and scared. “What’s happening? Who are these men?”

Damn it—the boy was supposed to stay clear. “Get out of here, Fren. They’re brigands. They killed the Torvans.”

A whistling sound galvanized Rorr. He whirled and grabbed, fingers closing on an arrow in midair.

Fren’s eyes went wide. The arrowhead with its wicked barbs had been halted only inches from his face.

Rorr broke the shaft and flung it from him. He turned to interpose himself between his stepson and two new combatants, these towering half-orcs.

“What have we here?” one said mockingly. “I thought we’d killed them all.”

“These are new.” The second half-orc nocked an arrow, drew back the bowstring, and let fly.

His bow had a heavier pull, and the arrow sang through the air at a higher pitch. There was no way Rorr could catch it before it spitted his stepson, but his arm flew up to block. He winced as the arrow drove through the muscle in his forearm. An involuntary reflex as he jerked away robbed the shaft of its power; the arrow remained embedded in his arm.

“Run, Fren. Go!”

Rorr lifted his right forearm and drew out the now-bloody arrow. He stabbed it in the half-orcs’ direction. “You’re not wanted here.”

The pair laughed.

Rorr spun in a full circle and flung the arrow as if it were a spear. The broad head drove through one half-orc’s eye.

“Impressive,” the surviving warrior said, no fear in his voice.

“I missed. I’d aimed for his throat.”

The half-orc laughed and fired another arrow, but Rorr drove hard, legs pumping furiously. He slid through the dirt and grabbed the fallen shield with the knife-sharp edge. The arrow missed him, but a new whistling sounded immediately. The half-orc was competent with his weapon.

Rorr rolled and used the shield to deflect two more arrows, then saw the half-orc had chosen a different attack. From a second quiver slung across his broad back, he brought forth an arrow dripping with black, oily fluid. The half-orc let fly. Rorr watched the arrow soar above him. As it passed, it exploded into flame and continued on to drive itself into the wooden door of the Torvan granary.

The brigand laughed again and reached for another.

Rorr gripped the upper edge of the shield and spun it outward in a glinting arc, then let go.

The sharpened side cut through the half-orc. The chest wound exploded in a bloody fountain, and the archer slid backward off his horse.

Rorr felt no triumph. He bent over and took a few quick steps away from the burning granary. The arrow and its black oil had ignited a fire as fearsome as the one devouring the farmhouse. Nothing could stand against it.

That was when he heard Fren’s call for help—from inside the blazing building.

Putting his head down, Rorr charged like a bull, crashing through the door and into the inferno.

Chapter Two: The Lord’s Due

Rorr exploded through the wall of flames and stumbled past, finding relative cool beyond. The fire arrow had not yet spread its fury deeper into the granary, but he knew that the building and its grain stores were already far past saving.

“Fren!”

“Pa! Over here!”

Rorr followed the faint sound, again grimly satisfied that his stepson once more called him father. That was an obstacle he had long sought to overcome. His brother’s son was not his own. How could he be both uncle and father to the boy? Yet he wanted to. It had proven difficult for all of them—Beeah especially, since she had to see her children’s father reflected in him. Rorr knew he was a pale reflection of Ulane, but the resemblance was still there.

“This way! I can’t get the door open!”

Rorr coughed as he skirted the bin of grain. Torvan had the central bin filled and had left a path around it, possibly to afford easier access to the oldest grain first. He passed more than one portal that might open to pour out a steady flow of the harvest wheat.

Gasping for breath, he ran into Fren before he saw him. The smoke had become too thick, and his eyes watered.

“It’s a door to the outside, but I can’t open it. I tried to go back, but the flames—!”

Rorr threw back the latch, but the door refused to open. He hunkered down, then blasted out, shoulder smashing through the wood. For a moment he thought he would be held captive in the center of the door. Then the hinges broke and he tumbled outside. Smoke billowed out.

“Are you all right?” Fren laughed without humor. “The door swung inward, not out. We were—”

Rorr extracted himself from the wood, splinters poking from his body like porcupine quills. He scooped up his stepson and ran, ignoring the boy’s frantic attempts to break from his grasp. Gasping from exhaustion, he finally dropped Fren and pointed.

“Horse. Get on. “

“I’m not a child! You—”

Rorr once more engulfed his stepson in a powerful hug and clumsily mounted. Even before he had his seat, his heels raked at the horse’s flanks, getting it moving. The horse had barely gone fifty yards when the granary exploded like the very sun. Burning grain cascaded down in fiery flutters around them. Rorr kept the horse trotting along at its top speed. Only when the roar diminished did he slow and turn to look back.

“What happened?” Fren coughed and wiped soot from his face. “The grain?”

“The dust catches fire easily. Trapped inside the granary, it exploded.”

“You knew that would happen?”

“I’ve seen such things before.” Rorr said. In truth, he had loosed such a ferocious storm on others before, for the same reason as the brigands.

“What are we going to do?”

Rorr let his stepson find a less awkward seat on the horse. He took a deep breath to clear his lungs, then said, “We search for the Torvans, but I don’t think we will find them.”

“Do you think they got away before the soldiers came?”

Rorr said nothing.

∗ ∗ ∗

“There was nothing you could do to save the grain?”

Rorr smiled a little at his wife’s question. Always the practical one, Beeah. He shook his head.

“Since you found no trace of them, I can only assume they simply left.”

“Ma, it wasn’t like that. There were these soldiers, and Pa stood up to them.” Fren looked at Rorr with a glimmer of respect. “He saved me when the granary caught fire.”

Rorr hadn’t bothered relating the details. Letting Beeah know only what was necessary seemed most prudent. Worry over brigands and the like served no purpose, now that the attackers lay dead.

“We need to finish plowing,” he said. “As much fun as speculating about Thom Torvan and his family might be, it does nothing to prepare us for the winter.”

“He’s right,” Beeah said, lips drawn into a disapproving line. “No time to waste now. We can sit around the fire this winter and spin wild tales of how Thom and Ganley are off somewhere with that brood of theirs, enjoying the fine weather on a southern beach.”

“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 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 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 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.

Chapter Four: Last Stands

“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.

“He thinks he’s got the right to take our property,” Fren said.

Rorr wasn’t sure about his older stepson. Some of Beeah shone through, but none of her fearfulness. And Fren lacked the wide-eyed wonder Rayallan showed. He wished the boy were older. He could use a strong arm protecting his back.

“He is a petty lord, like—” He bit off the rest. There was no point describing Suvarian in terms they wouldn’t understand. “I’ve seen men like him. Thievery is always their first move.”

“He’s got a lot of armed men,” Rayallan said. “Fren said there were half-orcs. I’ve never seen one.” The longing in the boy’s voice also reminded Rorr of his brother. Never quite brave enough to explore his world, but always certain something lay just beyond the horizon. Ulane had died unfulfilled in so many ways.

But he’d had a loving wife and two fine sons. Rorr let out breath he hadn’t realized he held.

“If we run, we will have nothing. The harvest will be lost. The house and everything in it will be destroyed.”

“We can take some things…” Beeah looked around in despair.

“The Torvans probably thought the same. If they got away, it was with little more than what they wore.”

“That was a lot of grain that burned,” Fren said. A wild light came to his eyes. “You should have seen it blow up. It was like—”

“Like what will happen to our grain, to our house and barn unless we fortify,” Rorr said. At some point listening to his sons and watching his wife agonize over losing hard-won furniture and keepsakes, he had decided. They would fight.

“How?”

“Board the windows. Rayallan, you’re good with a hammer. See to using that pile of cut planks out back.”

“I’m good with a hammer? You mean it? Yes!” He rushed off, excited at being praised—and needed. Rorr hoped that the boy would live to brag about it.

“What can we do?” Beeah asked. Fren scowled at his mother as she wrapped her arms around him in a fiercely protective hug. “Fren and I can help.”

“They use fire arrows. Water will keep anything surrounding the arrow from burning, but the arrow itself cannot be extinguished.”

“Tongs,” Fren said suddenly. “Fire tongs. And heavy gloves. I can pluck the arrows out that way!”

Rorr nodded. It wasn’t likely to work the way his son thought, but it might save some damage.

“What are you going to do?” Beeah wrapped her arms around herself as if she were cold. She shook. Rorr moved to comfort her, then realized there was no time. He heard the pounding of hooves in the distance.

He swung about and went to the oak where the hole among its roots still beckoned. Dropping to his knees, he pulled the final oilcloth-wrapped package from the ground. He stripped away the thick cloth and gripped the sword within. It felt familiar in his hand, bringing with it memories of other times. He settled the buckler on his left arm, adjusted his greaves, then went out to face the riders before they had a chance to set fire to his house.

A quick glance over his shoulder showed his younger son hammering furiously to fasten the wood over the windows. Rayallan paid attention to nothing but his work. Every blow of his hammer drove a nail in. Some took two strikes, but Rorr approved. Through the open door he saw his wife and other son moving furniture so the doorway could be blocked in a few seconds.

He had no more time to consider how the defense went. A dozen riders approached, slowing and finally coming to a halt.

“You’re still here,” the lead rider called. He urged his horse forward a few yards, cutting the distance between them in half. He wore light plate armor emblazoned with the sigil the others had worn. An articulated glove on his right hand curved around the saddle horn. His ungloved left hand dangled free at his side but was only inches away from a large shield, also decorated with the gerfalcon rampant.

“It’s my land.” Rorr held his sword at his side and partially behind him to hide it from the man.

“Lord or no, Suvarian is far from noble.”

“I’m Lord Suvarian.”

Rorr knew the lord expected a reply. He remained silent.

Suvarian bristled and drew his sword, brandishing it over his head.

“You defy me, man of dirt. You are a farmer. I am lord of all these lands! Go to your knee! Show me respect.”

“You’re a cattle herder who takes on airs,” Rorr shot back. “Are you truly royalty? Or are you some squire’s bastard son out to make a name for himself?”

Suvarian roared and galloped forward, sword slashing. Rorr stepped to the left side of the lord’s horse, forcing the man to awkwardly reach across his body in a futile attempt to land a blow. Before he could gauge the proper distance, he was past Rorr and fighting to wheel his horse about.

Rorr looked at the other soldiers. They wore heavier armor than the men he had killed. None carried a bow and arrow. That brought a slow smile to his lips. He might have destroyed all their bowstrings, or perhaps these were Suvarian’s personal guard and fancied themselves swordsmen. They sat awkwardly on their horses and seemed uneasy with their weapons.

“These are back-stabbers, not fighters,” Rorr said. He pointedly turned his back on the dozen soldiers and faced Suvarian. “Take them and go. I have work to do.”

Rorr widened his stance as Suvarian prepared for another attack.

“I have wasted enough time. Leave or die!”

“How many of your men have I killed already? I lost count. A battle scribe will be needed for the tally if you refuse to leave now.”

“You? You, a farmer?” Suvarian barked the words, but a hint of uncertainty came and he looked over at his guardsmen. He boasted for them—and to bolster his own courage. The failed first attack had obviously unsettled him. “Give this whelp a sword. I would fight him.”

“After I kill you,” Rorr asked, “your men will depart?”

Suvarian laughed. It carried a hint of madness in it.

“You cannot slay an armored knight. I am lord of these lands and a master swordsman!”

A rider came up with a sheathed sword. He threw it to the ground beside Rorr.

“Then your death will be mourned near and far.” Rorr kicked the sword aside without looking at it. “I prefer to use my own.”

He lifted the sword from where he had held it at his side. Sunlight glinted off the intricate hilt, the fine etching on the blade, the wicked, slightly curved tip and the edge so sharp that it cut through the air without even the softest whisper.

The soldier who had dropped the sheathed sword moved away a few yards. He called to the others, “He has an Aldori dueling sword!”

This caused momentary furor among the men.

“Where did you find the sword, farmer?” Suvarian called. “You can hurt yourself with such fine steel.”

“I never so much as nicked myself through three border wars.” Rorr lifted the sword to display the intricately decorated boss at the end of the hilt.

“A swordlord’s seal. Where did you steal that, plowboy?” Suvarian sounded less sure of himself.

“It has been my soul and companion for four years.”

The lord’s face drained of blood. “You are a thief and a liar!”

“I challenge you, Suvarian. Fight or leave my land now!”

The soldiers murmured when their lord did not instantly move to slay the impudent peasant.

“You,” Lord Suvarian called to them. “Yorrial, Juston, Jerra—kill him! Fight him!”

“I challenged you, Suvarian.”

“All of you, attack! Kill him!” Suvarian tried to force his horse to back away, but the animal balked.

His warriors milled about until one finally let out a battle cry and galloped forward. Rorr looked from Suvarian to the attacking soldier. He took a quick double step to the side, ducked, threw up his buckler to deflect the slash, and straightened his bowed legs. His sword tip found the spot at the vulnerable bottom of the rider’s armor. Rorr felt first resistance, then none, then resistance again as the blade drove through internal organs. As the rider toppled, Rorr yanked back his blade. He held it high, letting the dead soldier’s blood run down the small channels on the Aldori sword so the others could see.

A second warrior started an attack, then veered away.

Rorr turned his back on the tiny knot of fighters and faced Suvarian. The man fought to control his horse. Rorr walked forward, tongue clacking at a pace and frequency to unsettle the horse further. It had worked before during many battles where he had faced impossible odds. It worked again.

The horse reared and tossed Suvarian to the ground. The lord landed hard on his back and struggled to sit up. His armor wasn’t full plate, but the pretender found it too heavy to move.

Rorr stopped a pace away, eyeing the fallen lord. Suvarian screeched like an owl as Rorr slashed. The shriek turned to a blubbering sob as Suvarian realized the cuts had done nothing but sever the leather straps holding his armor.

“Stand and fight,” Rorr said coldly. “If you don’t, I’ll kill you like a rabid dog.”

Suvarian rolled from side to side, then shucked off the armor like a snake molting its skin. He struggled to hands and knees, then forced himself to stand. He clutched his sword in a clumsy double-handed grip.

“I’ll cut out your eyes and feed them to crows,” Suvarian said in a shaky voice.

Rorr tapped his cheek with the boss at the end of his hilt in silent prayer to Gorum. Then he flashed the sword in a mocking salute.

Suvarian attacked. His assault was primitive, and Rorr hoped that his own untrained sons would have done better, had he handed them a sword.

A quick flurry of parries and a simple thrust sent Suvarian staggering away, a long cut across his torso.

“Kill him, you cowards! Do as I order!” Suvarian gripped his weapon fearfully, more like an ax than a sword. His eyes widened in fear as Rorr slashed the air. The lord switched from threatening to cajoling. “A thousand acres of pastureland to whoever kills him. Two thousand!”

Rorr heard nothing behind him to hint that any of Suvarian’s soldiers found the offer intriguing enough to die for. He stamped his foot and sent Suvarian scuttling away.

“You don’t deserve to die by my sword—not this sword, with so proud a history.” Rorr thrust the blade into the ground so hard it quivered for several seconds. He saw calculation come to Suvarian’s eyes. The lord’s courage returned as Rorr advanced, weaponless.

“You are a fool, farmer.” Suvarian screamed and charged.

Rorr watched, gauged where the pretender’s foot would be planted, then swept up his shovel where it had been thrust into the ground at the middle of a plowed row. He swung the tool with his right hand as he parried Suvarian’s thrust off the buckler. The tiny shield whined with the impact—and Suvarian fell facedown, tripped up by the shovel’s shaft.

The man tried to rise, but Rorr’s patience was at an end. He gripped the shovel handle with both hands and swung, batting the sword away. A foot in the middle of Suvarian’s back forced him flat again and pinned him there.

A quick look up told Rorr what he needed. None of Suvarian’s brigands made a move to aid their lord.

“You should not prey on those unable to fight back,” Rorr said.

“I’ll see you executed!”

“No, you won’t.” The shovel rose and fell. Suvarian’s head rolled away and stared off down a plowed row, as if making a final examination before approving the straight furrow and deep, even cut.

Rorr left the shovel buried in the ground, walked deliberately back to where his sword thrust up. He withdrew it from the dirt, prepared for a fight against the remaining soldiers.

Only dust met his eyes. When the cloud settled, his view was unobstructed all the way to the trees at the far side of his land, save by the occasional bush or sapling. Those would be removed as autumn plowing went on.

He turned and saw Beeah and his two children. Fren and Rayallan stared openmouthed at Suvarian’s body. His wife’s eyes never left him.

“I’ll tend to this,” he said. “Go back to the house. You did a good job of fastening the planks over the windows, Rayallan. Now get your brother to help you remove them.”

“There’s no more?” Fren sounded disappointed.

“Go,” Rorr said, but there was no crack of command in his voice. He was no longer a commander of men. A father directing his sons was more appropriate now.

“Aw, Pa,” protested Fren. Then he punched his brother in the shoulder and challenged him to race back to the house. Only when they were halfway back did Beeah step up.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “How—?” She looked at Suvarian, then jerked away from the gory sight.

“No one threatens my family or my land.”

Fear widened her eyes—fear of her husband.

“We have work to do.”

She opened her mouth to speak, then clamped it shut once more as she shook her head.

“I’ll plow. When the boys are done with the house, send them back. There will be work for them in the fields.”

“He was a lord,” she said, her voice cracked with emotion. “He will have an heir.”

“He was nothing but a brigand.”

“Someone else will come. If not his heir, then another in his company. What will we do then?”

Rorr looked at his wife and held up the shovel. She recoiled. He drove the blade into the ground, then heaved the dirt high into the air. Wind caught the soil and scattered it. Beeah backed off, then almost ran to the farmhouse.

Rorr took a deep breath, threw the shovel aside, and went to harness the plow horse. It took close to a half-hour to return to the field with the horse dutifully pulling the plow. Rorr spit on his hands and bent forward to guide the plow. There was real work to be done.

He didn’t even look up when the cougar howled in the distance.