The Sworn Sword

It was not large as such things went, but it looked strong. Two stout wooden barricades had been thrown across the stream from bank to bank, made from the trunks of trees with the bark still on. The space between them was filled with rocks and earth and packed down hard. Behind the dam the flow was creeping up the banks and spilling off into a ditch that had been cut through Lady Webber's fields. Dunk stood in his stirrups for a better look. The glint of sun on water betrayed a score of lesser channels, running off in all directions like a spider's web. They are stealing our stream. The sight filled him with indignation, especially when it dawned on him that the trees must surely have been taken from Wat's Wood.

"See what you went and did, lunk", said Bennis. "Couldn't have it that the stream dried up, no. Might be this starts with water, but it'll end with blood. Yours and mine, most like". The brown knight drew his sword. "Well, no help for it now. There's your thrice-damned diggers. Best we put some fear in them". He raked his garron with his spurs and galloped through the grass.

Dunk had no choice but to follow. Ser Arlan's longsword rode his hip, a good straight piece of steel. If these ditchdiggers have a lick of sense, they'll run. Thunder's hooves kicked up clods of dirt.

One man dropped his shovel at the sight of the oncoming knights, but that was all. There were a score of the diggers, short and tall, old and young, all baked brown by the sun. They formed a ragged line as Bennis slowed, clutching their spades and picks. "This is Coldmoat land", one shouted.

"And that's an Osgrey stream". Bennis pointed with his longsword. "Who put that damned dam up?"

"Maester Cerrick made it", said one young digger.

"No", an older man insisted. "The gray pup pointed some and said do this and do that, but it were us who made it".

"Then you can bloody well unmake it".

The diggers' eyes were sullen and defiant. One wiped the sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. No one spoke.

"You lot don't hear so good", said Bennis. "Do I need to lop me off an ear or two? Who's first?"

"This is Webber land". The old digger was a scrawny fellow, stooped and stubborn. "You got no right to be here. Lop off any ears and m'lady will drown you in a sack".

Bennis rode closer. "Don't see no ladies here, just some mouthy peasant". He poked the digger's bare brown chest with the point of his sword, just hard enough to draw a bead of blood.

He goes too far. "Put up your steel", Dunk warned him. "This is not his doing. This maester set them to the task".

"It's for the crops, ser", a jug-eared digger said. "The wheat was dying, the maester said. The pear trees, too".

"Well, maybe them pear trees die, or maybe you do".

"Your talk don't frighten us", said the old man.

"No?" Bennis made his longsword whistle, opening the old man's cheek from ear to jaw. "I said, them pear trees die, or you do". The digger's blood ran red down one side of his face.

He should not have done that. Dunk had to swallow his rage. Bennis was on his side in this. "Get away from here", he shouted at the diggers. "Go back to your lady's castle".

"Run", Ser Bennis urged.

Three of them let go of their tools and did just that, sprinting through the grass. But another man, sunburned and brawny, hefted a pick and said, "There's only two of them".

"Shovels against swords is a fool's fight, Jorgen", the old man said, holding his face. Blood trickled through his fingers. "This won't be the end of this. Don't think it will".

"One more word, and I might be the end o' you".

"We meant no harm to you", Dunk said to the old man's bloody face. "All we want is our water. Tell your lady that".

"Oh, we'll tell her, ser", promised the brawny man, still clutching his pick. "That we will".

On the way home they cut through the heart of Wat's Wood, grateful for the small measure of shade provided by the trees. Even so, they cooked. Supposedly there were deer in the wood, but the only living things they saw were flies. They buzzed about Dunk's face as he rode, and crept round Thunder's eyes, irritating the big warhorse no end. The air was still, suffocating. At least in Dorne the days were dry, and at night it grew so cold I shivered in my cloak. In the Reach the nights were hardly cooler than the days, even this far north.

When ducking down beneath an overhanging limb, Dunk plucked a leaf and crumpled it between his fingers. It fell apart like thousand-year-old parchment in his hand. "There was no need to cut that man", he told Bennis.

"A tickle on the cheek was all it was, to teach him to mind his tongue. I should of cut his bloody throat for him, only then the rest would of run like rabbits, and we'd of had to ride down the lot o' them".

"You'd kill twenty men?" Dunk said, incredulous.