by Helen Gosney
Dorrel and Kurt glanced at each other in surprise as they moved closer to the camp. Truly, Sian was like another world.
“Supper smells good, Rowan,” Dorrel said as he noticed the delicious smell of roasting pork in the air. Something else took his attention though. “But what the hell is that? A bloody tree house?”
Not far from the edge of the clearing was a massive tree with wooden steps spiralling up around its mighty trunk. Perhaps fifty feet up was a platform, then more steps and ropes and another platform, then another and another… and right at the top… Dorrel couldn’t quite see because of the branches and leaves, but he thought it was a little hut. No, it couldn’t be.
Rowan laughed at his bewilderment.
“’Tis the fire tree,” he said, “Like the fire towers around the town, only a bit higher.” The tree had to be well over three hundred and fifty feet tall, a magnificent patriarch of the Forest Giants. It was certainly taller than the fire towers of Borl Quist. “I’ll check with Pa if it’s all right to take you up there… only if you want to, of course. Don’t be a hero if you don’t like heights though.”
They stopped below it so the lads could see it more closely. They stared upwards in wonder.
“Halt! Who goes there?” a stern voice demanded from the top of the tree.
“’Tis I, Grand Duke Yls and the Black Riders of Never, come from the Dread Court of the Silver Lady,” Rowan replied blasphemously, “Who the hell do you think we are, Fonse, you idiot?
“You might have been the Silver Lady herself, from all I can see up here,” Fonse replied grandly. He looked down at Rowan’s long silver braid and chuckled. Just as well he was safely up here for the moment, he thought, though of course that wouldn’t save him if Rowan decided to box his ears for him as he deserved. He’d simply come up here, do the job, and be gone before you could turn around. Fonse laughed again and leaned over the parapet and waved to them, his own long brown braid swinging over his shoulder. A young-looking lad appeared beside him and did the same.
“I doubt she’d be bringing work horses with her! Or her own bloody supplies for that matter,” Rowan retorted. “Is that young Perrin d’Mikkel up there with you?”
“Yes. ‘Tis his first time out in the camp, so he’s learning the ropes.”
“Good Gods. And Pa sent him up there with you? He must be going daft,” Rowan laughed, “So do we have Your Magnificences’ permission to proceed?”
“You may pass,” the two firespotters said with as much gravity as they could muster, before the young fellow Perrin dissolved in helpless giggles.
Rowan shook his head.
“No wonder poor Pa’s getting grey hairs from this lot,” he muttered.
“How old was that lad?” Ross wondered. The boy had seemed completely at home at the top of the tree, but he looked very young.
“Young Perrin? Twelve and a bit… all of our lads work side by side with the men when they’re twelve, whether it’s with the hunters, or at the timber yard in town, on a farm, or out here in the trees. They don’t get sent up the fire tree by themselves until they’re a bit older though. ‘Tis a big responsibility,” Rowan replied, knowing that Fonse would teach the boy well. He was a bit of a ratbag, not a bad thing in Rowan’s opinion, but Rhys simply wouldn’t have given him the job if he weren’t competent. He wouldn’t even be in Rhys’s team.
Some found the job of firespotter very tedious, and of course it could be, particularly on the calm hot days of high summer. But like anything else, it was what you made of it. Rowan had always liked it, because it gave him a completely different perspective of the great forest and the birds and animals and creatures it contained. It was exhilarating too, when the wind roared through the canopy and the Giant moved beneath your feet like an enormous beast stretching itself as it woke from sleep.
**********
The Wirrans had perhaps expected the camp’s cook to be a woman, and she was. Mariel, Jared’s wife, was a wonderful cook. She was dark-haired, blue-eyed and quite beautiful, and she was almost as tall as Rowan and as well muscled as any man in the camp. She’d come out of the cookhouse at the sound of the horses, knowing they’d be bringing more supplies. She took one look at the Cadets, then glared at Rowan, her hands on her hips.
“Gods, you’re bloody hopeless, Rowan! You look after your horses better than these poor little laddies. What the hell have you been doing with them? And why don’t you ever bloody feed them? Look how scrawny they are!” she said severely.
Rowan shrugged and tried not to laugh at the wide-eyed Wirrans. They wouldn’t dream of speaking to him, the Champion, like that, and neither would any other Guardsmen. Rowan had told them that he wasn’t the Champion out here. He was simply Rhys d’Rhuary’s little lad who’d left the trees for some daft reason, but finally seen the light and come back to them, and that was just the way he liked it… and here was the proof of it. They’d see a lot more of it while they were here in the forests - certainly no bowing and scraping, but plenty of teasing and laughter and what they realised was a deep quiet respect for all that Rowan had done, without the need to keep on about it.
“They’re Wirrans, Mariel. The poor buggers are always a bit scrawny,” Rowan said as he dismounted, “Perhaps you can feed them up a bit while we’re here.”
“Me! Me feed them up! And do the rest of your bloody jobs for you too, I suppose? Huh!” She glared at him even more fiercely, though it had little enough effect on him. She sighed as if the weight of the world was upon her broad shoulders. “Dammit, I’ll have to, won’t I? Else the poor little laddies’ll be dropping dead on us before lunchtime, if we try to work them at all.”
Rowan winked at the ‘poor little laddies’, who were still not quite sure how to react.
“Aye, they will, and then the bloody Guard will be after me for an explanation in damned triplicate. Oh, and don’t you be feeding them like you feed the rest of these lazy great loafers out here, or they’ll bloody burst! And I warn you, I’m not going to be cleaning up any messes,” he said with a grin.
“Don’t worry, laddie. We’ve got young Perrin to clean up messes, and he needs the practice,” she said. She smiled suddenly, a beautiful beaming smile that lit her lovely face as she stepped forward to envelop Rowan in a huge hug. “’Tis so good to see you out here again, Rowan love, and looking so well too. Was everything all right at Den Siddon? We… we were worried for you…”
He knew exactly what she meant. His experiences at Messton and Trill had affected him deeply and it’d taken a long time for him to come to terms with them. He’d probably never really recover fully. He kissed her cheek and said quietly, “Aye, Mariel, ‘twas all right. ‘Twasn’t easy at times, but… Fess was right to take me back there. ‘Twas time to do it. Thank you for thinking of me.”
“And how is the training going? You look bloody fit enough to take on anyone,” she smiled at him again, “You’d probably even give my old Gran a run for her money!”
That particular old lady had to be nearing eighty, but she stood almost six feet tall and could still show the youngsters how to skin a deer or chop up firewood. Rowan thought she’d give anyone pause, and he certainly had no plans to be taking her on.
“Ha! Well, it all seems to be going well, thanks to Ross and the lads. I’ve got them running around with me every morning now the foaling’s finished.”
“Poor buggers. Still, it’ll give poor Griff a bit of peace and ‘tis good to keep them occupied, even if it does make them a bit scrawny.” Mariel smiled at the Wirrans to show she was only teasing them too. Mind you, beside the muscular foresters anyone would be considered scrawny.
“You’re just the one to fix that, Mariel,” Rowan laughed as they unloaded Mariel’s supplies and headed further into the camp.
The Cadets found themselves wondering just how many more tall, beautiful forester women they might soon be meeting. Rowan, Griff and Honi lived quietly and worked hard a couple of miles out of the town of Borl Quist, and Griff’
s two sons were about Dorrel and Kurt’s age, but away working in the forest to the north. Dorrel and Kurt had worked hard with the foaling, and they’d loved every minute of it and learned a great deal more than they’d actually expected to. With one thing and another they really hadn’t had much time or inclination for socialising, though the excursions to the river with Isan and his friends had been fun.
They’d met Conor’s sisters and a few other girls on the odd occasions they’d gone into the town, but most had been too busy with their own business to do more than smile and greet them politely in perfect Wirran. Perhaps there might be distractions they hadn’t thought of, out here in the trees.
**********
In the distance they could see several tall strapping young women who were working side by side with the timber cutters as they laboured to bring down a massive tree. A bit to one side they saw a couple of slightly smaller lasses and boys following closely behind two older men. As they got nearer this second group waved to Rowan and the newcomers. Dorrel saw they were carrying a deer between them and realised they must be the camp’s hunters. When they got to the horseyards another pretty freckle-faced girl turned the care of all the horses over to Rowan, shouldered an axe and hurried off to join another crew. She turned for a moment and smiled shyly at the newcomers, then disappeared into the trees. No, Mariel certainly wasn’t the only woman in the camp.
“Our lasses have the same opportunities the lads do,” Rowan said as he saw the Wirrans’ surprise. “If they want to work in the trees or become hunters, or work in the timber yard or brew beer for that matter, then that’s what they do. And if they want to keep the home fires burning, they can do that too. Some don’t come out to the trees after they’re wed and ‘tis rare to see them out here after they’ve started a family, but a few come back when their children are grown. But really, as long as all the damned work gets done, it doesn’t matter who does it.”
Of course the girls didn’t generally come out here until they were fourteen or fifteen, a couple of years older than the boys: they simply didn’t have the strength for it before then. Nobody could say that of any of these young women now though.
“Gods, my sister would die if she saw those girls working like that…” Kurt said, watching wide-eyed as two tall, lovely girls stepped away from the massive tree and sauntered over to a water barrel for a drink. He wondered if they were Daisy and Violet of the glorious voices. They both looked over and smiled charmingly at him, before taking up their axes and rejoining the men at their labour.
“Mine would too, but she’d kill to have a figure like that,” Dorrel said slowly.
Rowan laughed. All of the women were strong and fit and well muscled, but they were still very feminine. Though their clothing was the same as the men’s and their long hair was braided similarly, nobody could possibly mistake them for men. Most wore a flower or ribbons in their hair and their working clothes of linen shirts, leather trousers and heavy boots did nothing to disguise their shapely bodies.
“Well, the hard work is what gives them the good shape, lads, same as it does for the men. Oh…” he said as a thought struck him, “A couple of the lasses out here now are married, but they don’t always wear their rings in case they lose them or they get caught up in something and lose a finger… still, you can tell which ones they are because they’ll have a gold or silver bead braided into their hair over the left ear… Their husbands might or might not be out here just now, but…”
“…But someone of their clan almost certainly is,” Ross finished the sentence. He and Rowan had spoken of this before they’d left home. He’d smiled to himself as the Cadets’ eyes had got wider and wider as they progressed through the camp. “So don’t do anything silly, lads.”
“Bloody Hells! I wouldn’t dare!” Kurt said. Every woman wore a clan knife at her hip and Kurt doubted that they were merely for show. Foresters simply didn’t think like that. And the axes that some carried so nonchalantly looked very, very sharp.
“Kurt, lad, they’re just women… girls, even, some of them. They won’t bloody bite you and they like to flirt with handsome young fellows like you and Dorrel. They’d be insulted if you didn’t give them a chance to at least practice a bit. Gods know most of the men out here are a bloody plain, boring lot,” Rowan laughed. “Just treat them as you’d treat any lass at home.”
Dorrel and Kurt looked at each other for a long moment.
“The… er… the lasses at home don’t… um… carry knives…” Dorrel managed.
Rowan smiled at him.
“Ah. Well, the ones in Sian do. The ones in the forests, anyway. They know how to use them, too, but it doesn’t mean they’re going to unless you give them a damned good reason,” he said. “I’d advise you very strongly not to walk into the women’s sweat lodge, baths or privy though! That’s them over there with the flowers painted on the doors.” He indicated a couple of solid timber buildings a little apart from the others.
**********
Next morning, most of the foresters were on their way to breakfast in the central hut that was a combination common room and mess, and they stopped to see what their Wirran visitors were watching so intently. They were happy to have a change in their routine and quite sure they could put these newcomers to some sort of work. As Guardsmen, they’d be trained in the use of an axe, but it wouldn’t be the same as was required here; all the same, there’d surely be something they could do and they seemed willing.
Rowan was training, as he did every day.
“Bugger me, he’s got good with that damned sabre again,” Rhys said softly to no-one in particular.
He looked around at the fascinated faces of forty or so of his crew, and of course the Wirrans were there too, standing right beside him.
“Dorrel, lad,” he said thoughtfully, “Have you ever seen Rowan work with an axe?”
Dorrel looked up at him in surprise.
“Aye, Sir. I’ve seen him cutting wood with Griff… they had a contest,” he said.
They had, too. They’d started off with several big logs each and ended up with neat piles of stove-sized pieces and kindling, much to Honi’s delight. But they’d run out of logs before they’d run out of strength and the heaps of cut timber had been more or less the same size. It had been declared a draw.
Rhys laughed. The two had been doing this since they were youngsters and there’d never been a definite winner once Rowan had reached his full strength.
“No, no, I don’t mean like that, laddie!” He casually picked up the beautiful axe that was leaning against his knee and ran his thumb along the wickedly sharp edge.
“Sir, is that the… the, er…” Dorrel managed. He and Kurt were staring at the axe in amazement.
“It’s the Champion’s Axe, in the same way that Rowan’s sword is the Champion’s Sabre. Lovely thing, isn’t it?”
It was superb. A beautifully shaped head of blued steel, with similar decoration to Rowan’s sabre: a narrow chased band of silver, gold and electrum that represented the clan braid and a magnificent Forest Giant of silver and gold. No dog slept below this one though, as it did on Rowan’s sabre. The tiny figures of two men, unmistakably foresters by their braids, stood side by side and the taller one had an arm around the other’s shoulders. The detail was astonishing. The g’Hakken rune was deeply incised on the back of the axehead and the handle was a long, shapely piece of densely grained timber bound with three bands of gold. The double-headed eagle of Den Siddon glared from the central band.
Rhys smiled at the Wirrans’ awed faces.
“’Tisn’t quite right for Rowan, because it was crafted for me and I’m a bit taller,” something like five or six inches taller “… and heavier, but still he makes a fair fist of it… Rowan, lad!” he called.
“Aye, Pa. Do you want me?” Rowan stopped his practice and turned towards his father.
“Try this, laddie, and give yourself a bit of a change. Catch!” Rhys threw the axe in Rowan’s direction.
<
br /> Dorrel, Kurt and Ross gasped as Rowan plucked it out of the air one-handed, with no apparent effort at all.
“Don’t worry, lads. I’d have to try a hell of a lot harder than that to do Rowan a mischief with an axe, or with anything else for that matter,” Rhys chuckled, “Away you go, Rowan. Let’s see what you can do!”
Rowan looked at him quizzically for a moment, shrugged, and put his sabre back in its scabbard and handed it to Ross. He tossed the axe from hand to hand, smiled as he felt the perfection of it, and moved into his training drill again.
If anyone had expected Rowan to be hesitant or tentative they’d have been disappointed. Every forester is taught to dance with an axe after all, but few were as good at it as Rowan. His concentration was absolute and he flowed through his routine as though it made no difference at all to him that he was wielding a heavy axe rather than the sabre that he’d trained with for half his lifetime. Maybe it didn’t. His dance with the axe was as swift, graceful and lightfooted as anything he did with the sabre, and if one looked at it another way, equally terrifying and equally lethal.
Dorrel turned to Kurt, wide-eyed.
“Dear Gods, I’m bloody glad he doesn’t do that too often,” he breathed.
“I’m bloody glad I’m not sparring with him right now,” Kurt replied, his eyes on the axe as it flashed from hand to hand in the early morning light.
“And I’m bloody glad that Sword Master Stefan and Commandant Telli aren’t here, lads. They’d have had kittens by now… mind you, I don’t think I’m far off having them myself,” Ross said as Rowan flowed past them, totally focussed on what he was doing. The Horsemaster didn’t think any of Rowan’s kin would be disowning him any time soon.
Rowan had worked up a good sweat when he finally stopped. The foresters blinked as if they hadn’t done so for a good while and then they cheered him as one and hurried forward to clap him on the back. They appreciated a good axeman, and Rowan was certainly that and always had been. Even so, these men and women had been amazed at some of the things he could do with the axe and the sheer effortlessness with which he did them.