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
“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
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