Plow and Sword by Unknown Page B

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