by Helen Gosney
They had forgotten in the excitement of their wins. They looked at each other in dismay.
“We’ll… er…” Kurt began.
“I’ll wipe the floor with him, even if he did win his division well,” Dorrel said firmly, “Reputations mean nothing, Rowan… er, Sir, he’s still got to get the job done. You told us that yourself.”
“So I did. Well, good luck to both of you, lads. I truly do think that one or the other of you will win this,” Rowan said.
“So do I,” Stefan laughed, “But you’ll need to go back to the Marshal and see who you face next.”
In the event, it was Dorrel who won a hard-fought final against his friend. Both lads were delighted with themselves, as of course they had every right to be. They cheered loudly as first Stefan, and then Rowan, won his way into the Final of the Tournament.
“So what are you going to do in the Final, Sir?” Dorrel asked innocently, as Rowan shook his opponent’s hand and turned to stroll back to them.
“What do you think, you cheeky bugger?” Stefan grinned, “I’m going to wipe the bloody floor with him, just like you did.”
The Sword Master had to be content with the runner’s-up medal, but he wasn’t disappointed. He’d done as well as he could and in fact the bout had been a wonderful spectacle, worthy of a much bigger Tournament. And his little group had done very well too: another lad had won his section and two more had come second and third in theirs. In fact nobody had finished out of the top three places in their sections. It looked like Den Siddon’s reputation was in good hands.
Rowan’s return to competition had been very good in spite of his foot and Stefan felt that he himself had done well too; all the same, he had the uncomfortable certainty that Rowan had more improvement in him.
**********
34. “You’re in for a surprise with Red.”
A little troop from Den Bissen clattered through the Gate and into Den Siddon.
“Don’t gawp, lads,” Sergeant Karl Horbensson muttered, “They already know we’re from the Woopsies.” He had a quick look around himself though. It really was a damned big garrison, Den Siddon. Impressive too, with the Memorial and all. The troopers saluted as they passed the great Memorial and headed for the stables.
Thom Bolt was heading for lunch when he saw the last of the troop round a corner and disappear from sight. Who the hell were they, he wondered.
“Did you happen to notice where that troop was from, Charles?” he asked a second-year recruit who was staring after them too.
“Er… their emblem was a horse, Sergeant,” the lad said.
Thom frowned at him.
“What sort of a damned horse, you idiot? Running or rearing?”
“A… um, a running horse, Sir. Which garrison is that?”
“Den Bissen. It’s about half way to the southern border, only a fairly small place… Thanks, lad,” Thom said, his irritation gone as quickly as it had come. His friend Karl was stationed at Den Bissen; maybe he might get some news of him. And why would Den Bissen be sending a troop here? He hurried off to the stables to see if he might find out. Lunch could wait. He was almost there when the Den Bissen men emerged from the stables, looking around themselves helplessly.
“Ho there, Karl!” he shouted as he realised who the troop leader was, “Are you lost? What the hell are you doing here?”
“Thom!” Karl hugged his friend quickly, “The Captain decided we should come and train here with your Trophy squad for a month or so. Said it’d give us more experience… and he said the Champion’s training here too. Gods, it’s a damned big garrison, Thom,” he looked around carefully.
Thom nodded.
“Aye, it is. When I came back here after a couple of years at Den Ree and Den Kahler it seemed bloody huge. Come on, I’ll show you where the barracks and the Mess are,” he smiled at his friend and the four men with him. “So you’ve come to spar with Red Rowan, lads?”
Some of the men looked very unsure and Karl said slowly, “Bloody Hells, Thom. We’re all dreading it, even though they say he’s struggling a bit with his foot.”
“I think his foot’s almost come good again now,” Thom said thoughtfully, “But why are you dreading it? He won’t bite you, you daft buggers.”
The men all shook their heads, unconvinced.
“He won’t need to bloody bite us, Thom. He’s the damned Champion, in case you’ve forgotten. The damned dual Champion…”
Thom nodded again.
“Aye, I suppose we do sort of forget it a bit around here now. But it’s what he prefers, truly. Always has. I remember when he won the Trophy the second time, I was a recruit here, there was such a to-do and carrying-on and he hated it, simply hated all the fuss. He ended up taking leave and disappearing for a few weeks. And now he says there’s still enough folk who want to remind him of it without us doing it too. You should meet him after you get settled, he’ll probably be in the Mess.”
“What! We can’t go into the Officers’ bloody Mess, you idiot!” Karl was aghast at the thought of it. Den Bissen wasn’t very big, but its Captain was a stickler for the niceties and surely Captain Fess was too.
“No, of course not. But he’s not always in the Officers’… often he eats with the rest of us,” Thom laughed at the others’ amazed faces, “You’re in for a surprise with Red, truly. He’s nothing like you’re probably expecting… He won’t bite you, honestly, but er… well, he doesn’t suffer fools gladly, and he can be very bloody blunt. But he’s the least arrogant man you’ll ever meet.”
As it turned out, they didn’t meet Rowan that day and he wasn’t at the circles the next morning either.
**********
“Sorry, lads, he’s found something else to do this morning. Don’t worry though, he’ll be here this afternoon. You can meet him then,” Stefan said with a smile.
The Den Bissen men weren’t sure whether to be relieved or disappointed that the Champion wasn’t there, but all the same they had a very enjoyable session with the Den Siddon squad and afterwards Karl dismissed his men and told them to have a good look around the garrison and familiarise themselves with it. He took his own advice, roaming around, surprised again at just how big the place was. He’d found the Memorial, been humbled and awed by it as everyone was and then he’d just… wandered.
And now of course he was lost. He’d been past the stables, kept going in the direction he thought the Mess was, but… Dammit, he thought. I’m damned hungry now. He couldn’t see any helpful Den Siddon men anywhere, though. Probably off feeding their faces like I should be, he thought miserably and tried to follow his nose to an enticing smell of bacon. He went a bit further, but no… this didn’t look right at all. He heard the sound of an axe falling in an easy regular rhythm somewhere ahead of him and kept going.
Ah, there was someone at last. A tall, well-built, silver-haired Siannen forester was happily working his way through a big pile of logs, singing softly to himself as his axe rose and fell. A little black cat was curled up on his folded shirt, supervising the work. Karl wondered if the fellow might be one of Red Rowan’s kin, perhaps visiting, and keeping himself busy here. He wondered too what he was singing… It sounded a bit like “The High Priest and the Harlot”, but the tune wasn’t quite the same. Not a bad baritone voice though.
He looked at the play of muscles in the man’s strong lean body and thought that he’d be happy to be as fit as this fellow obviously was when he had silver hair like that; chopping wood truly must be good for you. Awful scar around that side though.
“And the High Priest and the Harlot made a night of it, she snuggled close and kissed his little…” the Siannen switched easily to Wirran and turned his head just as Karl was about to announce himself.
“Hello, Sergeant. Lost, are you? Or come to help me and Scrap chop the firewood?” he said with a grin. His youthful face belied his thick silver hair.
“I’m bloody lost. I’m trying to find the cursed Mess,” Karl said with an answering grin, “You can ke
ep the firewood all to yourself, thanks. It must keep you fit though. And is that your little cat?”
“Aye, that’s Scrap. He’s a bit possessive about my shirts, seems to think someone’s going to make off with them if he doesn’t protect them for me,” the man pivoted neatly and held out his hand, “Welcome to beautiful Den Siddon. I’m Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist of the Forest Giant clan.”
“Pleased to meet you, I’m…” Karl stared up into the Siannen’s strangely coloured eyes. No. Red Rowan, they called him. Red, not bloody silver. “Great bloody Beldar…” he said softly as he automatically shook the callused hand of a legend.
“No, I truly don’t believe you’re him, with all respect. He’s a lot taller than you, built like a brick privy,” Rowan smiled, “I’m not sure he’s actually from Den Bissen either,” he added thoughtfully as he saw the running horse on the other’s chest.
“But, you’re… you’re… I…” Karl pulled himself together a bit even as he tried not to gawp like an idiot. He managed a passable salute. “Your pardon, Sir, I… I meant no offence, Sir…”
Rowan wished he didn’t have this effect on Guardsmen. He smiled at Karl again.
“’Tis all right, lad. You’d have to try a hell of a lot harder than that to offend me. If you can wait for five minutes while I finish here, I’ll come with you to the Mess. ‘Tis hungry work, chopping wood.”
“Aye, I, er, suppose it is. But why are you…?” Karl hastily stopped himself. “Your pardon again, Sir, it’s none of my business. And I haven’t told you my damned name either… I’m Karl Horbensson, Sir.”
“Truly?” Rowan beamed at him. “I’m pleased to meet you, Karl. I’ve heard a lot about you.”
Karl looked at him in horror.
“Have… have you, Sir?” he managed.
“Aye, I have…” Rowan smiled at him happily again, “The demon swordsman from Den Bissen who’s going to kick a lot of backsides in the Trophy, they say. And good luck to you.”
“But who…?” suddenly Karl knew. “That bastard Thom… and that bloody Bryn… I’ll kill them…”
“Don’t do that, lad. Poor Captain Fess and his men would only have to hang you, and then they’d be a man short in the Trophy. ‘Tis too late to qualify anyone else now,” Rowan tried not to laugh at Karl’s horrified face. He continued more seriously, “Don’t let them worry you, Karl. Folk are always talking about other folk that they know nothing about, believe me. ‘Tis just hot air and noise, generally speaking. But I’d heard that you lads were coming to join us for a bit. It’ll be good to have someone different to spar with. I missed this morning, too busy chopping wood because the man who does it’s sick, but perhaps we could have a bout later today?
Karl’s eyes widened.
“I’d… er… I’d be honoured, Sir, but I…” he stammered.
“Karl, lad. I truly don’t bite, no matter what those silly ratbags Thom and Bryn might have told you. Truly, I’d believe less than half of what they’ve said if I were you.”
“Thom said that you didn’t bite, Sir, but…”
Rowan laughed.
“Did he indeed? My apologies to Thom then. And I won’t kill you either, Karl, believe me.” He smiled at Karl again. “Reputations mean nothing, truly. ‘Tisn’t the reputation that wields the sabre, lad… although to be truthful, mine might as well sometimes,” he shook his head, “A couple of the lads here are still so damned worried about it that I have to do almost nothing. Don’t let that happen to you too. Come to the circles later and spar with me, not my bloody reputation. I’ll look forward to it. And now, breakfast, I think. Let’s go.”
He stacked the last pieces of wood onto the neat pile he’d made, moved Scrap off his shirt and put it on and headed off for breakfast, a bemused Karl trailing along beside him. Scrap scampered along behind them both.
“Oh, by the way, Karl,” Rowan said, “Please call me Rowan. All my sparring partners do.”
“But, I… I couldn’t do that, Sir. It wouldn’t be right…” Karl was shocked at the mere thought of it.
“Of course it would. I can call you Karl, can’t I? Or must I call you Sergeant Horbensson?”
“No, of course not, Sir, but…” Thom had told him that Rowan was nothing like he’d been expecting and he was right. How could Red Rowan possibly be so… so normal?
“So you can call me Rowan.” Rowan smiled at him, “Good, that’s settled then. Now, the Mess is just along here…”
**********
The troopers from Den Bissen finished their warmup and paired themselves up ready to spar.
“No, no, lads!” Stefan said with a grin, “What’s wrong with us Den Siddon men? Aren’t we bloody good enough for you?”
“We gave them a good run for their money this morning!” Corran piped up. “Maybe we frightened them off!”
“You cheeky bugger, Corran! Where are your manners?” Stefan smiled at the bemused Den Bissen team. “Truly, the lad has the manners of a damned gnat sometimes, as Rowan says. But… well, you did come here to get a bit more experience…”
“Aye, Sir, we did too,” Karl said, “It was just… um… force of habit, I suppose.”
“’Tis never a good thing to be too predictable,” Rowan said softly, “Now, Karl, I believe you and I were going to have a bout today?”
Karl stared at him. Suddenly he wasn’t sure that he really was ready to face the Champion in the circles. He’d shown no sign that his injured foot was still giving him trouble during his very unorthodox warmup. Mind you, some of the Den Siddon men had done backflips and things too, even the Sword Master. How odd, he thought, but they were undeniably extremely fit and agile… maybe there was something in it.
“I won’t bloody bite you, lad, I promise. But we’ll let these other louts get going and then we’ll start, if that’s all right with you,” Rowan said quietly, knowing that there’d be less gawkers to put Karl off that way.
“Aye, Sir… er… Rowan,” Karl managed, “I’d be honoured.”
Rowan smiled at him.
“I truly do appreciate the respect you show me, Karl, but you’ll find ‘tisn’t an honour really. ‘Tis just plain hard work.”
“Especially after he’s kicked your backside a few times!” Corran jumped as he found his own backside swatted with the flat of Rowan’s sabre.
“Corran! Don’t put the poor lad off his game,” Rowan laughed at his surprise.
“Sorry…” Corran grinned at them both and hurried off to a circle with Corporal Jarle of Den Bissen.
**********
Karl and Rowan danced around the circle for a few minutes, both watchful, evaluating the other’s strengths and weaknesses. Karl was surprised and concerned when Rowan frowned and called a halt.
“Are you all right, Rowan? Is your foot…?” he asked quickly.
“Aye, Karl, my foot’s fine and I’m fine too,” Rowan said slowly, “But do you remember what I was saying earlier today about not letting my reputation do the job for me?”
“I… er…”
Karl was finding it much easier said than done. This was Red Rowan, the Champion, who he was facing, after all, not just one of the Den Siddon men. Mind you, some of them were very damned good too. But Rowan… with a sabre in his hand he suddenly seemed very different from the pleasant, welcoming man he’d had breakfast with that morning. And very different from the man who’d been lifting weights and laughing with the others as he turned backflips and walked around on his hands a few minutes ago. Not aggressive, no. Simply very, very focussed and terrifyingly competent.
“Karl… I meant it when I said that reputations mean nothing. For all you know, I’ve lost my touch, I’m bloody slow and useless, and my reflexes are gone,” Rowan raised a quizzical eyebrow, “For all you know, I’m just a decrepit old bugger living on a bygone reputation that I don’t deserve to still have…”
Karl looked at him sceptically. His strong beautiful physique belied his words and so did the way he’d danced around the ci
rcle and the casual way he’d parried every move that Karl had tried.
“No, I don’t think so…”
Rowan laughed.
“Well, maybe I did exaggerate a bit. But… well, with all respect, you’re not going to know like this, are you? Unless you start to hold that sword like you mean to keep it and start to put some effort into making it hard for me to take it away from you, I will disarm you every time. I’m sorry to offend you, but I was expecting to face a demon swordsman here. I’d even worked myself up to it. That’s reputations for you, you see… they’re not always reliable.” Rowan smiled at him and then suddenly became serious. He walked away a little with Karl and spoke softly so that the others wouldn’t hear. “Karl, lad… I’m not going to bloody kill you. I’m not going to even nick you if I can help it, and I’m not going to go out of my way to humiliate you either. But at the minute you’re about to do that all by yourself. And I will certainly kick your backside for you, laddie, unless you can forget who you think I am and what you think I might do to you, and start acting like the damned good swordsman that I know you are.” Rowan shook his head slightly. “Respect is a fine thing, and a sensible thing too, generally speaking, but it can go too bloody far.”
Gods. Thom had said he was bloody blunt.
“It’s… it’s not so easy…” Karl shook his head hopelessly.
“No, maybe not.” Rowan looked at him carefully. “Karl… you need to learn to think more like a forester… we’re only playing games here, ‘tisn’t life or death, so… what’s the worst thing that can happen to you? Perhaps you think you’re not going to be good enough… or maybe you’re worried that I’ll wipe the floor with you…? Well, aye, I could do that, I suppose. Neither of us would learn much from it, but I could do that. And with all modesty, you wouldn’t be the first one I’ve done it to and you probably won’t be the last. And I’m sure you’ve done it to some folk too, in your time.” He smiled slightly. “But it wasn’t the end of the world for them, and it wouldn’t be the end of the world for you either. We’re not in a battle here, after all. We’re just playing games. So… back to thinking like a forester… Were I you now, Karl, I’d be thinking… well, I’ve got nothing to lose here, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to die wondering. I’m going to see what I can do against this bloody man who thinks he’s going to disarm me just like that, and I’m going to see just how good he really is. I’m going to push him so damned hard he’ll think a tree’s fallen on him…” Rowan smiled at Karl’s stunned face. “So, what do you think, lad? Shall we try it again? The demon swordsman against the decrepit old forester?”