Plow and Sword by Unknown

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