Oathblood

'If?' Kemoc's grim smile lightened. 'Don't see enough of you, old son. I'll be glad enough to keep you a bit longer-but I warn you, spring plowing around here is not for the weak of heart. I've heard it said that at Forst Reach, 'plowman' and 'wild beast tamer' are considered to be one and the same thing.'

Now Lauren's curiosity was more than roused, it was avid. 'In that case, I don't think you could be rid of me if you wanted to!'

He attempted to get more information out of Lord Kemoc, but a spirit of mischief -- or maybe devilment -- had infected the Lord of Forst Reach, and nothing more would Kemoc tell him. Lauren went up to his bed that night with his curiosity completely unsatisfied.

Lauren was happy to spend the winters at Forst Reach -- winter being the only season when his services as a Master Bard were not needed at Haven, for all the Master Bards that had no families came crowding back to avoid the harsh weather. Kemoc was an old friend from the time Lauren had first gone out on his Journeyman's wanderings, and since he had nowhere in particular to go in winter and no great desire to spend it on the road or in Haven, Lauren welcomed the invitation. In the spring, he would return to Haven bearing all the news of this part of the world back to the capital -- and in greater detail than the Heralds of this region did, since he spent more time here than a Herald on circuit could. For his part, Lauren found in Kemoc's household the family he had never known. Perhaps it was easier because he had come into this 'family' without any of the burden of childhood memories. It is easy for parents to pull the strings that make one dance, he reflected, as he closed his door behind him, After all, they are the ones who tied those strings in place. Perhaps it was just that he was familiar enough for the Ashkevron household to be easy with him, yet not so familiar that anyone inflicted family grievances on him.

Or perhaps it is because they know that as a Bard, I might well be tempted to turn an absurd grievance into a comic song.

Lauren knew Lord Kemoc well enough to realize that behind the joking and the grim humor, there was some real worry. But why should he be so concerned over a little matter like spring plowing?

Lauren crossed the room unerringly, even in the darkness. There was no doubt that the wind had turned; now it blew full against the shutters of his room, and there was a gentler, wetter scent to it, where it leaked in past the leaded glass window-panes, than there had been this morning. He put his gittern into the stand by touch and knelt to blow the fire to flame.

In the ten years he'd spent winters here, Lauren had never seen anything to make Kemoc this concerned. Forst Reach was a prosperous and peaceful holding. Spring plowing, he wondered again. Why should he have compared it to a coming battle? Just how difficult could spring plowing be? He realized that he was not country-wise enough to know everything about life on the land, but surely the weather couldn't become that vicious in the spring or he'd have heard something of it by now.

It was as he thought that -- though he did not realize it at the time -- that he got his first clue. For on the wings of the warming wind came the squeal of an angry stallion from the stable.

Lauren listened to the horse telling the world that he was ready to take on all comers, mare or competitor, and chuckled. No doubt; even the beasts recognized the turning of the season. And since Kemoc had gone coy, he might as well get to sleep; he'd find his itch of curiosity eased all in good time.

Two days later, the last trace of snow was gone, and although the air was chilly and the breeze brisk, it was no longer so bone-chillingly cold. It was time for the first plow to cut the first furrow, while the earth was still damp, but not muddy. Right after breakfast, Kemoc had brought Lauren out to the back of the barns where the harnessing took place, and the sounds of angry horses had rung through the air even before they reached the yard in front of the barn. Now Lauren stared at a pair of fighting, kicking geldings -- geldings, not stallions! -- being dragged to their harness by two sturdy plowmen, and felt his eyes widening.

'Spring plowing,' said Kemoc with resignation. 'There you have it, the sum and total of our problem.'

'But-but -- I thought plowhorses were, well, docile,' Lauren protested, trying to reconcile the fact that he knew those horses had been gelded with the fact that they were acting like fighting stallions. The first horse had been dragged to his appointed place and with two people holding his bridle, a third was managing to get a harness on him. The second had already kicked his harness off, and was trying to bite the first horse, whose ears were back and whose yellowed teeth were bared.

'They are,' Kemoc replied heavily. 'Everywhere but here. Come along, old lad. I'll show you what we're up to here. This is all due to a decision made by one of my ancestors, and the idea was a sound one, but -- well -- there are some problems with the execution, you might say.'

Farther along the row of horses being readied for the field, a pair of mares with foals at heel were also being harnessed up. The foals were clever, nippy little demons, who obviously resented the fact that their meal-producers were being interfered with. The men harnessing the mares had to keep them off by main force, and wore leather shirts to protect against bites. 'We're famous for our Ashkevron breed of war horse,' Kemoc explained. 'There was a horse -- allegedly a Shin'a'in warsteed -- called the Gray Stud. He was the foundation-stallion; we took him to our hunters and plowhorses -- in the first generation. He was a fighter and he was smart, everything you'd want in a war horse, but he wasn't big enough to carry a man in full plate armor. We were looking for intelligence and fighting spirit from him, agility and speed from the hunters, and size and strength from the plowhorses. We crossed the sons from the hunters to the daughters from the plowhorses, and that gives us our basic warhorse. We continue crossing the best of the best; geld everything we don't use at stud, and sell the ones we won't breed. Trouble is, we can't afford to keep horses around eating their heads off and doing nothing but breeding, so everything is broken to harness and plow except the breeding stallions. Which makes spring plowing time -- exciting. The geldings all retain every bit of a stallion's fight. That's why people pay a small ransom for them.'

'I can see that,' Lauren replied, watching with stunned amazement as a gelding -- another gelding! -- left