by Helen Gosney
“Aye… he dropped his shoulder as he lunged. That lad in Stefan’s Squad, Gerral, he does the same thing,” Hibbon said, frowning thoughtfully.
Rowan nodded. He was always telling Gerral off about it.
“Aye. And that’s why he was beaten in his Round, though he did damned well to get that far. That’s partly why this lad will be beaten too, I’m sorry to say.”
“Sorry! Don’t you want to win this damned thing?”
“Hibbon, old friend. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t want to win the bloody thing, would I?” Rowan laughed, “Do you truly think I’d have spent the last year running around those cursed battlements and chasing Fess’s lads around a bloody circle, when I could have been at home watching the Giants grow, if I didn’t want to win it?”
“No, laddie, I suppose not. So, what’s the other thing that’ll beat him? You said that was only partly why he’ll lose.”
“Two things, I think,” Rowan said soberly, “He’s a bit too slow, for one, and he seems to have only one speed, as Stefan said. And he’s still thinking about my reputation too much, and not enough about me. I can do more damage than any bloody reputation.”
And in spite of being more than twelve years younger than his silver-haired opponent, Axel was quickly finding that out for himself. He’d thought he’d been fairly evenly matched in the first round, disappointed to lose it, but still not too concerned. There were still another four ten-minute rounds to go to make it up. None of Rowan’s matches had gone the full distance and some had been over dreadfully quickly; perhaps with his limited preparation his stamina mightn’t hold out for a long five rounds now. But Axel was finding, as so many others had before him, that Rowan seemed to get faster and stronger the further he went and never mind his cursed ankle or anything else. A move that Axel simply never saw coming had him disarmed again. Great Gods, this bloody man truly is unbeatable, he thought desperately. He watched him as he sauntered back to his second. He’d barely raised a sweat.
“Axel, lad, don’t panic,” Regan, his own second, said to him quickly, “You’re doing all right. You just need to…”
“To what, Regan? The cursed bloody man is just too damned good for me…”
“Do you think he ever thought that about anyone when he first won this damned thing and him only eighteen?”
“No, but…”
“You need to try and relax, lad. They say that the Champion treats it as a… a game.”
Axel stared at him in surprise.
“Aye… that’s what he said to me. He said it’s just a game, it doesn’t really matter who wins…”
Regan shrugged. He’d been trying to train swordsmen to win this for a hell of a long time and he’d have sold all of his grandmothers for ten generations and his first-born son, to have had this Siannen fellow to work with. Young Axel was very, very good, but Regan truly didn’t think he could beat Rowan, whether or not the Champion was still carrying an injury. Of course he wasn’t about to say so.
“Mmm, well, I suppose he’s right, up to a point. Did he say anything else?”
“He…” Suddenly Axel remembered something else Rowan had said on the day the lists had been posted in the Men’s Mess, “He said we all take it too seriously. He said he’d try to win it, but if he couldn’t, it wouldn’t be the end of the world… and he said I should try and enjoy it.”
“Then he’s wise as well as very bloody good with a blade,” Regan smiled at him, “But laddie, you’re bloody good with a blade too. Don’t beat yourself, make the bugger work for it.”
Axel nodded thoughtfully.
“Good lad. Just do your best,” Regan gave him back his sabre and patted his shoulder as the referee called the contestants out for the third round. He was very proud of Axel’s efforts, but he was a hard-headed Crellian and he knew the lad wasn’t going to win the Champions’ Trophy. Not this time, anyway.
He was right. In the next round Axel gave a bit better account of himself, but he still found himself outclassed.
Rowan shook his hand afterwards.
“Thank you for the bout, Axel. You’ve done well,” he smiled at the dejected Crellian, “Don’t be too hard on yourself, lad. You’ve done Crell proud and you’ve done your family and friends proud too; but most of all, you’ve done yourself proud. I’m sorry I’ve taken your dream today, but don’t let it stop you. Surely you’ve heard all the lads bragging about finishing in the Round of Sixteen? And here you are, you’re in the Round of Two. You’re a Finalist in the Champions’ Trophy, Axel. There’s no bloody disgrace in that.”
Axel looked up at him in amazement as the truth of his words sank in.
“Did you forget that’s what you are? Daft lad,” Rowan laughed softly, “You’ll have more than enough backslappers, believe me. You’ll be fighting them off with a stick, and you’ll be dining out on this forever. Hibbon here has been doing just that for forty bloody years. ‘Tis a game, Axel. It has its place, I suppose, but whatever happens, ‘tisn’t the end of the world.”
**********
Rowan and Hibbon found themselves mobbed by the huge crowd of onlookers who’d just witnessed not only a stunning exhibition of outstanding swordsmanship, but also the making of history, and something that would likely never be achieved again.
Hibbon’s own feat of training or helping to train the winners of the last four Trophies was equally unlikely to ever be equalled.
The two men finally got clear of all their admirers more or less unscathed and they hurried gratefully to Rowan’s family, friends and kinsmen and the troopers of Den Sorl and Den Siddon, all of whom had a proprietal interest in his success. Practically all of them had a financial interest as well. They clustered around both men, but differently to the other crowds of wellwishers: they stood close together, shoulder to brawny shoulder, so that nobody could get through and Rowan and his family stood in relative calm in the centre of the mass of them.
“Well done, Rowan laddie!” Finn shouted exuberantly, “Well bloody done! That’s shown them what us g’Hakken can do!” He grinned at the good-natured laughter of the foresters and then had to try hard to look sternly at Rowan. “And now we’ll have to argue about what to make for you, I suppose. I doubt you’ll be happy with another damned sabre. Oh, great bloody Gods! And then we’ll have to work out something about the cursed tattoo as well…”
Rowan smiled down at him.
“Well, maybe this time we won’t have to argue until we’re both bloody blue in the face, Finn. How would you feel about making me an axe like Pa’s?” he said.
“Aye… we could do that easily enough. But who would you want to give it to this time?” Finn answered warily. Surely it couldn’t be so simple, could it?
Rowan laughed and shook his head.
“Nobody. ‘Tis me who’ll be wielding the damned thing. I am a forester, Finn, in case you’ve forgotten, and I do go into the forest. I even know how to use an axe.”
“Aye, so you do. All right, laddie, a woodcutter’s axe for you,” Finn turned to some of the other dwarves, pleased, “That was bloody easy.”
“Aye, ‘twas. And now for the tattoo… what do you think, Rowan?” Toren asked slowly.
Rowan pushed the top part of his competition singlet across a bit and looked down at the tattoo on the right side of his chest. He frowned thoughtfully.
“Maybe you could… um… perhaps you could just put another sabre in the middle there, between the other two…?” He thought a bit more.
“But it might look like an old feather duster, or a cockatoo’s crest…” the young forester Perrin piped up. He’d been astounded by the Trophy competition, stunned by Rowan’s win as he’d realised it truly wasn’t as easy to do as he’d always thought, and he was wondering how he might convince Rowan to teach him how to dance with a sabre too. From the shocked gasps of those around him he realised belatedly he might have just blown his chances.
“Beldar’s bloody britches! You truly do say some dreadful things, young man, e
ven for a forester,” Telli managed.
Rowan laughed. He’d been shocking Wirrans for a long time and it was good to see somebody else do it too. Especially such a young fellow.
“Mind you,” he said with a grin, “The lad might be right. We’ll have to give it more thought, after things have calmed down a bit. And if all those other louts have moved on, I’d better go and tidy myself up a bit so the old buggers can make their cursed speeches.”
**********
The applause was deafening as Paul Williton pinned the Champions’ Trophy medal to Rowan’s jacket, but there was instant silence as the triple Champion began his speech. He’d been a match for hecklers when he was eighteen and they’d have no chance at all of upsetting him now. Besides, nobody would be so disrespectful.
The speech was more or less the same as the last two he’d delivered as Champion, though of course this time he had quite a few more people to thank. He began by thanking Telli and Fess for allowing him to train at Den Siddon, as well as Hibbon, Stefan and the Trophy Squad for their efforts in training him and Davi and Zefer and their healers for taking care of his injured ankle. Of course he thanked the splintmaker Gordon, the bootmaker Yosse, and Madame Estella for the splint and special boot that had allowed him to compete. And he thanked Griff and Honi for allowing him to devote his time to his preparation while they’d done all the work with the horses at home in Sian; while he was at it he thanked Ross, Dorrel and Kurt for their hard work too. Finally he thanked the g’Hakken for the axe they would make him, and he thanked the Trophy organisers, judges and the other competitors for their efforts. He even remembered to thank the recruits who’d done such a good job of ushering visitors around the garrison, much to the delight of the lads concerned.
“And now,” he said with a smile as he took a deep breath, “I think ‘tis truly time for me to retire from competition to be a respectable horse breeder and trainer. I might even chop up a few trees to keep my kin happy, and I’ll certainly be getting plenty of practice with fence posts.” He caught Griff’s eye for a moment and nodded slightly. “Oh, and we’ve got a very good crop of young horses by our stallions Mica and Soot coming on, if anyone’s interested. You’re welcome to come and see them at home in Sian at any time, or we’ll be bringing them to the next Horse Fair at Frissender. If anyone has a mare they’d like to introduce to Mica or Soot, they’ll be there too, and happy to oblige.”
He laughed to himself at the sudden interest of quite a few Guardsmen and others, and the shocked gasps from the dignitaries behind him.
“Bloody Hells, you’re a cheeky bugger, Rowan,” Paul chuckled as he and Rowan shook hands again and left the platform together to more applause and cheering. “Mind you, I wouldn’t mind looking at your horses myself… Horsemaster Ross was showing off some of those you brought back with you from Sian and they were superb…”
**********
55. “ I’ll always be a bit of the forest…”
Rowan did up the last of the smallish fabric-covered buttons that ran down the front of his shadow silk jacket. They were a bit fiddly, he’d found, but he liked the look of them and really, though he was the least vain of men, he was delighted with Darius’ efforts. The jacket was simply styled, beautifully tailored and as Darius had foretold, it was superb.
He heard the sound of many boots tramping across the Parade Ground. A lot more than a dozen troopers, he thought. What the hell are those silly buggers up to now, he wondered vaguely, but didn’t go to his window to see. If it was anything that concerned him, he reasoned, someone would tell him eventually.
There was a quiet knock on the door.
He straightened his jacket and opened the door to find Jasper, the Curator of the Guard Museum, standing there. He’d been a Lieutenant here at Den Siddon before a serious injury at Messton had ended his career. He walked with a heavy limp and a cane now, but somehow he still had the look of a Guardsman about him. His knowledge of military history was astonishing.
“Hello, Jasper,” Rowan said with a smile, “I wasn’t expecting to see you up here tonight. I thought you’d be off prettying yourself up for the Ball. Have I forgotten to return a book again?”
“No, no, Rowan, nothing like that,” Jasper smiled back at him, “But you forgot to collect these…” he held out a little box.
Rowan’s medals gleamed brightly in the lamplight.
“Dammit. I did, too.” Rowan sighed softly. “I suppose I’ll have to wear the bloody things.”
Jasper looked shocked to think that he might not.
“Of course you must wear them. Especially the Star. It’s not been worn for… um…” Jasper frowned in thought, “… for the best part of two hundred years.”
“Truly? So bloody long?” Rowan said, surprised. He’d known it’d been a good while since the medal had last been awarded, but he hadn’t realised just exactly how long it had been. Of course there hadn’t been much opportunity to earn the thing until Rollo had shattered the long peace by invading Wirran.
“Oh, aye. They don’t just give them out for the sake of it, you know,” Jasper smiled again, “Here, I’ll help you. Now, where’s the new Champion’s Medal? I’ll put it on this bar thing with the other two, so they’ll sit better…”
“Um… ‘tis here somewhere, if little Scrap hasn’t run off with it…” Rowan looked at the other man’s horrified face and laughed. “I’m sorry, Jasper, I shouldn’t tease you. No, ‘tis here in this chest.” He produced the lovely medal and handed it over.
“This is amazing, Rowan. Truly remarkable. I never thought I’d see all of these worn together…” Jasper said as he pinned the service medals to the left side of Rowan’s chest and the Champion’s Medals on the right. Darius had had the foresight to add two unobtrusive and discreetly reinforced sections into his design for just that purpose.
Rowan hadn’t thought it either.
“Tis probably the only time you’ll ever see them all like this, Jasper,” he said, “I’m not planning on making a habit of it.”
Jasper nodded, then cursed roundly as he pricked his finger on one of them. He looked up to see Rowan laughing.
“Fess always managed to do that too, and I’ve lost count of how many damned times I’ve done it myself over the years. Cursed bloody things,” he said.
“The pins are certainly bloody sharp. Well, at least we won’t have that problem with the Star…” Jasper quickly wrapped a handkerchief around his bleeding finger. It wouldn’t do to get blood on the Star of Yaarl. “Here, bend down a bit, please, Rowan, so I can reach… there you go…”
Rowan pulled his braid over the blood-red ribbon of the Star of Yaarl and adjusted the lovely medal at his throat.
“How’s that look, Jasper? Is it straight?” he asked anxiously. If he had to wear the damned medals, he wanted them to be sitting properly. He’d always hated the look of crooked medals, thought it showed disrespect.
He looked up and was stunned to see that Jasper had pulled himself to attention and was standing with his right fist to his heart.
“Bloody Hells, Jasper! What the hell are you doing?” he gasped.
“I’m acknowledging you and the Star as you should be, Sir,” Jasper replied evenly.
“Sir!” Rowan said, dismayed, “What the hell happened to ‘Rowan’, you daft bugger? You’re not in the bloody Guard now and neither am I!”
Jasper shook his head.
“Doesn’t matter. Once a Guardsman, always a Guardsman, especially where the Star’s concerned,” he said as he lowered his arm again. He swallowed his laughter at the appalled look on Rowan’s face as what he’d said sank in.
“Gods. This is going to be a very long night, isn’t it?”
“Aye, I’m afraid so.”
“Dammit. Maybe ‘tisn’t too late to take my bloody sabre and go home now.”
“I think Mrs. Telli and Mrs. Fess might have words to say about that, Sir… er, er, Rowan. Probably some of the forester ladies too.”
Rowan sa
id something truly disgraceful in a fluent mix of several languages, but his voice trailed off as the boots he’d heard earlier came closer, much closer, and crashed to a stop outside his door. He raised an eyebrow at Jasper, but the Curator shook his head. Nothing to do with him, and probably just as well. Rowan resisted a sudden strong urge to climb out the window and down the tallowbark to the stables and away.
Don’t be such a bloody coward, he told himself firmly as his visitor, or at least one of his many visitors, knocked politely at the door.
“Cade…? What brings you up here at this time of the night? Why isn’t Violet busy sprucing you up for the…” Rowan glanced behind his friend. There were a hell of a lot of troopers lurking there in their dress uniforms. “What’s going on?”
“Ah. Well, er… it’s like this…” Cade saw Rowan’s frown and hurried on, “Commandant Telli sent an honour guard for you, and, um… we’re it.” He tried not to laugh as Rowan’s expression changed to surprise, moved through stunned amazement and finally settled on a sort of appalled horror as he realised just how many men were there. Twenty men. Twenty-one, counting Cade. The Commandant himself would have an honour guard of twenty men in some rare situations. Not tonight, of course.
“He did what? I do know where the bloody Ball Room is, Cade, and I promised Bella I’d be there…”
Cade shrugged.
“You’ll have to take it up with the Commandant, then. But we’re your escort, unless you’re planning on tying us all up and going without us.” He hoped that Rowan didn’t have a ready supply of rope in his rooms.
“Don’t bloody tempt me, laddie,” Rowan muttered darkly.
“Are you nearly ready?”
“Aye, almost, I think…”
“Don’t forget your sabre, lad,” Jasper said.
Rowan swore again and turned back into the room to get it. He normally carried the sabre on his back now, but of course that wouldn’t do at the Ball. He patted Scrap, who was snuggled happily into his new blanket, purring; then he buckled the sabre at his hip, pleased to see that his jacket sat perfectly. At least Darius had remembered the sword, even if he, Rowan, nearly hadn’t.