by Helen Gosney
**********
There was a quiet knock on the door.
“Visitors, young Scrap? Are you expecting anyone? I wonder who’d be coming to see us now, when ‘tis nearly Lights Out?” he tickled the cat’s velvety ears, moved him aside and stood up to go and see.
“Hello, Stefan. I wasn’t expecting to see you again until tomorrow,” he said cheerfully, “Oh, and Davi too? This is an honour. Come in and have a seat, lads. Move Scrap aside if he’s in the way. Cup of tea? I’ve just made it. Or there might be some ale or wine or something if I have a look. It might be a bit elderly though, I’ve not had time to replenish the visitors’ stocks yet.”
Rowan never drank alcohol of any sort when he was in full training, and very little even when he wasn’t. Most foresters weren’t great drinkers, their lives in the forest could be dangerous enough without that, and they and Rowan could make a mug of ale last an astonishingly long time. Mind you, some of his concoctions of teas seemed very strange to the Wirrans, and the current one smelt suspiciously like clippings from Mrs Telli’s chamomile lawn.
“No thanks, Rowan, don’t bother,” Stefan looked and sounded concerned and the Master Healer didn’t look too happy either.
“What’s wrong, lads?’ Rowan asked, curious about why they should seem so worried. “Is everything all right?”
Stefan and Davi looked at each other and back at Rowan. The Sword Master spoke up.
“You tell us. Ross said you were in a bloody barn fire and a damned great bull stamped on your foot. Broke two toes, he said. What the hell were you doing in a bloody burning barn in the first place? And how the hell did you ride back from Sian with broken toes?”
“I didn’t use a stirrup on that side. Hurt too damned much if I did,” Rowan said reasonably, “And as for the barn…” he shook his head, “I just had to try and get the beasts out, Stefan. I couldn’t leave them in there without at least trying…”
“You bloody madman! That bull could have killed you!”
“I didn’t even know the poor bull was in there until he loomed up out of the smoke and trod on my foot.”
“Nobody told you there was a damned bull in there?” Stefan and the healer were aghast.
“No… well, nobody on the bucket line knew that Mirrin, that’s the owner of the barn, had borrowed him from a neighbour, and Mirrin was beside himself with all the noise the poor beasts were making, he wasn’t making any sense at all, so…” Rowan shrugged, “Don’t fret yourself, Stefan, Davi, I’m all right. The bull couldn’t see his own feet in the smoke, let alone mine, but he’d have missed me entirely if he’d only planted his hoof a couple of inches further forward or to the side. It’s healing up, truly.”
“Rowan, I…” Stefan took a deep breath and tried to calm down a bit, “I’m sorry I shouted at you, but… it’s time to be going to Tournaments and things, time to be getting match fitness, and I thought…”
“You thought I’d broken my foot and I’d be out of the Trophy? I thank you for your concern, but I’m fine, truly,” Rowan smiled at him, “My foot’s still a bit bruised, and the toes hurt if I run about too much, but it’ll all be fine in a few weeks.”
“You’d probably say that if your damned foot was about to fall off,” Stefan muttered.
“I truly don’t think it’s about to do that, Stefan. ‘Twas a bloody big bull though, I truly was lucky he didn’t plant his hoof an inch or two further back,” Rowan said.
“And I heard you’d burnt your hands as well, you mad bugger. Show me,” Davi said sternly.
“Gods, these bloody stories get around!” Rowan protested. “We’ve only been back a few hours and the whole damned garrison’s probably got itself in a knot.”
“Hands, laddie.”
Rowan sighed.
“Aye, Sir. By your command, Sir,” he said gloomily and held out his hands for the healer to inspect.
Davi could see that they’d healed up well, with good movement in fingers and thumb with only a little scarring, and that scarring would lessen, but they’d probably still be a bit tender in places.
“How do you manage with the hilt of the sabre, Rowan?’
Rowan looked at his own hands thoughtfully.
“I haven’t been doing too much with it since the fire, to be truthful…” he pretended not to hear the shocked intakes of breath, “Thorn, he’s the healer at home, he said to wait until about now before I use it too much. The couple of times I’ve tried it I bandaged my hands again, and it was all right,” he said.
Davi nodded.
“Aye, that’s a good thing to do for a bit longer, I think,” he said thoughtfully, “Was there any bleeding or weeping of fluid afterwards?”
“No. Just a bit sore, is all. Nothing too drastic,” Rowan said.
“Just be careful, Rowan,” Davi said slowly, looking up at both Rowan and Stefan, “They’ve healed up well, but you don’t want to undo all of Thorn’s good work by going at things like a bull at a gate.”
“I won’t. Don’t fret yourself. I’m only half as daft as everyone seems to bloody think,” Rowan said with another sigh.
“How long is it since it happened, Rowan? I was so shocked I didn’t ask Ross,” Stefan asked quietly. He hadn’t missed the stern look Davi had given him.
“Umm… it’d be a couple of weeks. No, a bit over that… two and a half weeks, I suppose.”
“And now the foot, please…”
Rowan suppressed another sigh and took off his sock to reveal his neatly bound foot. Davi nodded in approval as Rowan took the supporting bandage off, discouraged Scrap from running off with it, and presented his foot for inspection.
It was still quite bruised and swollen and the broken toes were more so.
“Bloody Hells.” Davi tried not to sound too horrified, but the incident and the likelihood of even worse injury had shocked him. “You’re going to have to be bloody careful, Rowan. No running for, say, another week at least, maybe two, and then slowly. Probably best to keep it bound up for a while yet, too. Lucky it’s happened now, I suppose, and not in a few weeks’ time,” he said.
Rowan nodded, resigned.
“Aye… thanks, Davi,” he said.
“Make sure you look after yourself, laddie. I’ve got good money on you for the Trophy, and so has most of the garrison,” the healer said sternly.
“So, no pressure then,” Rowan smiled.
“No, no. None at all,” Davi chuckled suddenly and then became more serious again, “It was a big bull, you said?”
Rowan nodded thoughtfully.
“Aye, he was a good size. A big red and white thing, he was. The poor creature was terrified and I thought he mightn’t follow the rest of the beasts out, but he didn’t like being left behind. He galloped after us like a mad thing, poor beastie. Upset the bucket brigade no end… they scattered like frightened rabbits. Truly, I’ve never seen any of them move so fast in their lives.”
Stefan and Davi stared at Rowan and suddenly they found themselves laughing at the picture he’d created of the hapless bucket brigade abruptly having a terrified bull gallop into their midst.
“Dear Gods, you bloody Siannens lead exciting lives!” Stefan managed.
“Aye, well, we have our moments. You should come and see for yourself. Bring Maggie and come back with us after the Trophy. You’ll surely be due some leave by then.”
Stefan looked at him in surprise.
“You’re going back to Sian again then?”
“Aye… for a while. Then I’ll be back here for a couple of months.”
“But… what if you win the Trophy?”
Rowan laughed.
“All the more reason to go home and get away from the madness. Truly, sometimes I wonder why I let Fess talk me into this…”
Stefan and Davi looked at each other and smiled.
“Ha! You know you’ll miss it when it’s all over… all that running around in the cold before breakfast, and up and down that bloody tower and round the battle
ments, and through the pine forest… and all the gawkers gawking and telling you how you should be doing things, as if any of them’d bloody know… to say nothing of doing cursed exercises and lifting weights and waving sabres around…” Stefan chuckled, “And then of course there’s all the miserable old buggers telling you you’re too damned old and feeble and you’ve got no business at the damned Trophy…”
“Oh, aye, I’ll miss all of that!”
“Admit it, you love doing it all!” the healer teased him.
“Well, I do like a bit of a challenge! And ’tis only the fuss and drama that happens any time I show my face that truly irritates me, and the miserable old buggers,” Rowan admitted, “All the rest of it… well, I’d not be running around any battlements, but I’d be working just as hard at home, one way and another. Any of our hunters are as fit as me, and most of the woodcutters are too.”
Stefan glanced at him thoughtfully. He was probably even fitter than Stefan was himself and his handsome face belied his thirty-seven years. Thirty-eight soon. He seemed barely older than twenty-five.
“Truly? I really will have to go to Sian and see for myself.”
**********
33. “Is it truly that time already?”
“Bloody Hells, Rowan! What did you do with Dorrel and Kurt?” Stefan said as they ran around the horseyards together for the first time since the return from Sian. Rowan’s hands had healed well and his foot was doing well too, but as the healer said, ‘feet and toes always take longer to get truly right’. He was having little problem running though and he seemed to have lost little of his fitness despite the restrictions he’d had.
Rowan looked at him in surprise.
“Dorrel and Kurt? Nothing really,” he said, “They helped me out a lot in Sian, so I helped them out a bit too. Why?”
Stefan laughed as they negotiated the last corner and headed back to the garrison.
“They wiped the floor with that arrogant young bugger Birren, who thinks he’s so much better than everyone else,” he grinned cheerfully, “And they had a damned good try at doing the same to me.”
“Did they? Good for them,” Rowan said with a smile, “They’re good lads, Stefan, truly. They worked really hard in Sian, much more than I wanted them to, to be truthful, but they were so interested in what was going on there was just no stopping them.”
“Aye, they are good lads. And they’ve improved so much I’m thinking I might enter them in a couple of novice competitions, give them a bit of experience,” Stefan said, “And speaking of that, how do you feel about a nice little tournament to get a bit of match fitness?”
“Dammit. Is it truly that time already?”
“Aye, I’m afraid so, laddie. We’ve already been to a couple of competitions. There’s just under three months to go. Will your foot stand up to it, do you think?”
“Aye, I think so, if I’m careful and don’t let the other contestants bully me. Bloody Hells. I really must have been drunk when I let Fess talk me into this,” Rowan sighed theatrically and then smiled again. He enjoyed the competitions for themselves, and simply wouldn’t bother if he didn’t, but the endless drama and speculation that went on as soon as he showed his face in a tournament did get very tedious. Unfortunately it wouldn’t go away, as he well knew, and it’d be even worse this time around. “So, when is it?”
“There’s a couple on next week. Corran and Abel are going to one at Breen, and I’m going to one at Den Ree with a couple of the lads.”
Rowan nodded thoughtfully.
“Aye, fine. I’ll go with you, if that’s all right. ‘Tis always good to have somebody different to run around the circles with. Is it a big tournament?”
“There’ll be about a hundred competitors including the novices, and a hell of a lot of onlookers, I’d imagine, if they hear that you’re there,” Stefan said, trying not to laugh at the resigned look on his friend’s face.
Rowan groaned.
“Aye, they came out in damned droves last time to see if I was up to the job or not. ‘Twas better when I was just an unknown lad from the Woopsies,” he muttered.
“Never mind, Rowan. You’ll survive.” Stefan knew that Rowan didn’t seem bothered by the stress of competition. He simply turned up and did the job he was there to do. Fess said he’d always been the same, even at eighteen. Even so… “You’re not worried about all the expectation with the Trophy this time, are you?”
“No. Pa always said if I did my best, that was all I could do,” Rowan shrugged, “And then it was up to the other fellow to either be better and win, or not so good and lose. And I’m lucky I don’t get nervous before a bout, never have, not even when I was just starting out. I had nothing to lose then and I’ve got nothing to lose now. That doesn’t mean that I won’t be giving it a damned good try though.”
“Aye, that’s how I feel too. I used to get nervous when I was younger, but not now,” Stefan said, “I wish I could get some of the lads here to feel the same way.”
“Aye, they take it all too bloody seriously, especially the Trophy. ‘Tis only a game, as I keep telling them. A serious game in some ways, but still just a damned game.”
Stefan nodded. It was rankest heresy, but it was right all the same.
“Oh, I damned nearly forgot,” he said, “We’ve got some lads coming from Den Bissen to train with us for a month or so. It’s only a small garrison there and they need more practice than they can get.”
“Aye, it can be hard. I was lucky at Den Sorl. ‘Tis only tiny, but Telli was a damned good swordsman, he finished in the Round of Four in Johan’s Trophy, and the Sword Master was runner-up in the Trophy before that. He actually came from here in Den Siddon, but the Commandant drove him mad, so he went to Den Sorl. He’d grown up around there, so it wasn’t the hardship the bloody Commandant thought. A couple of the others were good as well, and they were all willing to help me out,” Rowan smiled as he remembered those in his first garrison who’d helped him so much. “So when are the lads from Den Bissen coming? And hasn’t Thom Blunt been saying something about a friend of his from there, supposed to be very good with a blade?”
“Aye, the ‘demon swordsman’, he calls him. The ratbag. Well, we’ll find out in two weeks’ time.”
“Good, I’ll look forward to seeing some new faces in the circles. No disrespect intended of course, Stefan!”
“None taken, Rowan. As you say, it’s good to have different folk to spar with, else it can get too predictable,” Stefan said with another smile. You might know that Rowan was going to beat you, he thought, but he was never predictable in the way he went about it. Particularly now, when he was slowed a bit by his foot. Mind you, he was still very fast, but not as blindingly quick as he’d been and he’d shown surprising adaptations to still win most of his bouts. Truly, his ability with the sabre seemed boundless. That was why he’d been so good for all the Trophy group here. And he was generous about sharing and passing on his skills too, which very few top-grade swordsmen were in Stefan’s experience. Not just sabre skills either; Rowan was Weapons Master after all, and he’d found himself very much in demand at the archery butts and knife handling sessions and the unarmed combat classes too. The garrison joke was that you wouldn’t want to meet Rowan in a dark alley on a dark night unless you were very damned sure he was on your side.
**********
Den Ree was a good-sized garrison in the southern part of Wirran, and its Tournament was well supported by swordsmen from other garrisons as well as a couple of men from Crell and Thallassia, but even so they would have been surprised at the number of spectators who’d turned up. As Stefan had foretold, there were a lot of people there to watch Rowan’s return to competition, but it didn’t bother him any more than it ever had. He was there to do a job, and the number of onlookers simply didn’t concern him; he had better things to be thinking about. At the business end of the competition he was limping a little, but it hadn’t stopped him from giving a good account of himself.
> Rowan smiled as Kurt shook hands with his opponent, turned and came towards them, his face glowing with happiness. Dorrel ran to meet him, throwing his arms around his friend in a hug that Griff would have been proud of. Rowan turned to Stefan, who was standing beside him with a proud smile on his face.
“They’ve done well, Stefan,” he said, “They’ve both won their divisions…”
“Aye… I thought young Kurt’s nerves might have got the better of him, but he said if he could face the Champion he could face anyone.”
Rowan laughed.
“I thought exactly the same after I faced Johan that first time,” he said.
He and Stefan congratulated the two lads who’d done so well in their first competition.
“It’s all thanks to you, Rowan,” Kurt stopped in horror as Dorrel elbowed him in the ribs. “Er… sorry… um, er, Sir, I meant to say,” he stammered.
Rowan tried not to laugh as Stefan looked surprised and a bit shocked, and then decided not to have heard Kurt’s gaffe. After all, the Champion’s sparring partners were supposed to call him by his name. They were no longer Cadets, but newly promoted to Trooper and soon they’d be transferred to different garrisons to further their training and experience. All the same…
“’Tis all right, Kurt. I think the Sword Master is a bit deaf sometimes…” Rowan smiled at him again, “Now, what are you two lads going to do if you come up against each other in the finals? Or have you forgotten that the winners of the four divisions all face off?”