by Helen Gosney
**********
A few weeks later, Rowan was working his way through his daily sabre drill, watched by an attentive group of dwarves. Though he certainly didn’t seek an audience, he was well used to one from his training at the garrison and from the various Tournaments themselves, and he didn’t mind it. To his way of thinking, if someone wanted to stand around in the cold before breakfast and watch a sword drill, good luck to them. The fact that many of the dwarves did exactly that was a constant surprise to him. Even the younger ones hauled themselves out of bed before they really had to so they could watch him turn somersaults and handsprings and dance with his sabre.
They were all fascinated by his speed and grace and sheer ability with the sabre and a surprising number joined him every day, helping him to move the goats out of their paddock for a while so he could use it himself. It was the flattest area they had. Today was to be a very special day though, and the entire clan was gathered around the goat paddock as Rowan danced around, totally focussed on his practice as he always was. Finn and Dann came to the fence.
“Rowan, can you stop for a moment please?” Finn called, “’Tis time, lad…”
Though Rowan’s concentration on the job in hand was intense, he had an uncanny awareness of what was going on around him too and he was already running towards Finn before the dwarf had stopped speaking. He vaulted the fence, his face alight with excitement.
‘Now, Rowan lad, you must kneel,” Finn smiled at him but became very serious as Rowan dropped to one knee. “Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist, man of the Forest Giant and g’Hakken clans and Trooper of Den Sorl, will you accept this sabre made by our clan in honour of your victory in the Champions’ Trophy of this decade?”
Rowan looked at the lovely sabre in the dwarf’s outstretched hands: a gleaming length of blued steel with a narrow chased band of entwined silver, gold and electrum that Rowan recognised as his clan braid, it was elegantly curved and with a plain workmanlike hilt. On the top of the pommel the intricate g’Hakken rune was incised and partway down the blade was a superb Forest Giant in silver and gold, with a tiny dog asleep at its base. Rowan looked up at Finn, his eyes shining.
“Aye, Master Smith Findarel of the g’Hakken clan, I will. I am honoured and humbled to accept this blade and I hope to be worthy of it always. I thank you and the clan for it. ‘Tis the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen,” he said.
Finn smiled at him.
“Take it then, lad. ‘Tis yours. You’ve earned it,” he said, delighted at Rowan’s humbleness, so different from any other Champion he’d ever known or heard of.
He was surprised when Rowan took a deep breath, put both hands around the sabre’s hilt, and raised it in formal salute. Still kneeling, he lowered his head until his forehead rested against his hands and closed his eyes for a moment in an oddly poignant gesture.
“Thank you,” he said quietly.
“Try it out, lad,” Dann said, “See if we got it right!”
Rowan grinned at him as he flowed to his feet with his usual feline grace. He stood for a few moments, tossing the sabre from hand to hand as he always did with any blade or any other weapon or tool for that matter. The dwarves watched his intense concentration in fascination. A beatific smile lit his handsome face as he felt the perfect balance of the blade. The sword felt like it belonged in his hands, as of course it did.
“Thank you,” he said again, “’Tis perfect.”
He vaulted the fence again and danced across the grass: light-footed, graceful and astoundingly fast, totally engrossed with the magnificent sabre that flashed from hand to hand as he worked his way through his practice drill.
Finn and Dann looked at each other.
“’Twasn’t easy when he uses either hand so well, but ’tis the best blade we’ve ever made,” Dann said happily, “’Tis perfect for him.”
“Aye, ‘tis. And you were right, Dann. I thought it plain, and I thought we should have put more embellishment on it, but ‘twould have been wrong for the lad.” Finn watched carefully as Rowan flowed effortlessly past them, his face joyful. “Gods, he’s bloody good, Dann. He’s only eighteen and he’s the damned Champion. We’ll have to adjust the blade a little bit for him when he’s got his full growth and strength, but… what will he be like in a few years’ time?”
“Great Beldar himself would find him a handful then, I think,” Dann said with a grin.
“Aye, He would,” Finn said thoughtfully as he watched the tall young man dancing across the goat paddock with possibly the best g’Hakken blade ever forged. “He truly would…”
**********
13. “I hope I’m the one who sends him packing.”
[a further ten years have passed]
Rowan had been stationed in the little garrison of Den Sorl, close to the Sleeping Dogs Mountains, when he’d won the Champions’ Trophy and so it was held there at its next staging ten years later. It had been a bit difficult to find enough accommodation for all of the contestants, their entourages, and the vast crowd of onlookers, but the weather was kind to them and many were living under canvas.
Of course there was the usual debate about whether or not this might be the year that the defending Champion might win the Trophy for an unprecedented second time. Rowan had been barely eighteen when he’d won it against all expectation, so at twenty-eight he was a bit taller, stronger, a lot more experienced and even better with a sabre. And now he was the new Captain of the Guard of Den Siddon after Captain Johan’s recent shocking death.
“It’s strange coming back here, Sir,” he said quietly to the Captain of his very first garrison.
Telli smiled at him.
“Not ‘Sir’ to you any longer, lad,” he said, indicating the Silver Eagles of the Captain’s rank on Rowan’s broad shoulders, “I’m proud of you and happy for you, but… but I wish Johan was here…”
“So do I,” Rowan said sadly, “We… we were just minding our own business, sitting there on our horses with the men all lined up for one of the Commandant’s cursed inspections and… and Johan turned to me with an odd look on his face. He said my name quietly, and he, he just collapsed and fell off his horse. He was dead before I could even get to him. I couldn’t believe it then, and I still can’t believe it now.”
“No, neither can anyone else.” Telli sighed. “But he’d be happy the Commandant finally made the right decision and appointed you, Rowan. He chose you as 2i/c for a reason.”
Rowan shrugged unhappily.
“Aye, I suppose he did. I know he had his battles with the Commandant too, but… it just seems I can’t do anything right in the old bugger’s eyes.”
“Don’t let him get you down, lad. He’s a miserable old bastard, always has been. Johan did say he seemed to have a particular down on you though, for some reason. He couldn’t explain it and neither can I. Just put your foot down with a firm hand, he’s got no damned business poking his nose into the way you run the garrison when you’re doing a fine job. It’s hard enough, without his nonsense.”
“Aye, it is. The men have been good though. It’s been hard on them too, you know how popular Johan was,” Rowan said, “By the way, Sir… er, Telli, I’ve chosen Fess as my 2i/c.”
They’d been recruits together in Den Sorl of course, and they’d been fast friends ever since. There was nobody who Rowan would rather have at his side, or at his back for that matter, than Fess Aaronson. And the damned Commandant couldn’t alter that, he thought happily. Not that he hadn’t tried to block the appointment of course.
“Good choice, Rowan. He’s a bit of a ratbag, like you, but that’s not always a bad thing. I think you’ll do well together. He’ll be a help with the old bugger too, even if it’s only to lend an ear sometimes. Where is he?”
“Off stalking bookmakers with some of the lads, I think,” Rowan laughed.
“Does he know something I don’t?” Telli demanded.
“I shouldn’t think so, but you’d have to ask him.”
D
ammit, it was like pulling teeth sometimes, Telli thought. Then again, there was no point in beating around the bush with Rowan.
He looked at him more closely. Rowan certainly looked very fit, as strong and lean as always, and if the rumours were to be believed, even better with the sabre. He hadn’t had to qualify for the Trophy of course, being the defending Champion, but he’d been in several Tournaments and things to get match fitness, and he hadn’t lost a single bout.
“Tell me, Rowan…do you think you can win it this year?” Telli asked.
Rowan looked at him consideringly.
“Aye, I do,” he said with no trace of arrogance at all.
Telli knew better than to be surprised at Rowan’s stunning honesty: he was Siannen after all, and his fourteen or so years in Wirran hadn’t changed him at all.
“Then I’d better head straight to the bookmakers too, lad,” Telli laughed.
Rowan smiled at him.
“I might be wrong of course, Telli. If you ask anyone other than Fess and the garrison they’ll tell you it’s never been done before and it never will be. And there’s a couple of very good lads from Bettra and Oren and Thallassia too. All I know is I’m stronger, fitter and faster than I’ve ever been and Johan thought that I could do it. And if I can’t do well with a g’Hakken sabre in my hand, then I don’t deserve to have it.”
“Lots of others have had g’Hakken sabres in their hands over the last five hundred years, Rowan, but none of them could win it again,” Telli persisted, “Not even Johan.”
“Don’t you start too, Telli!” Rowan said with a grin. “All that means is it’s about time somebody did. We’ll soon see if it’s me, or if we have to wait for another ten years and pressure the next poor bugger to do the deed.”
“Sorry, Rowan. I didn’t mean to bully you about it,” Telli said contritely.
Rowan shook his head and smiled at him again.
“No, Telli, that’s not bullying. That’s just talking as friends do. It’s all these other buggers who think they know everything about everything that annoy me. Most of them wouldn’t know which end of a damned sabre to hold,” he laughed,” Last time they said I was too young and inexperienced and I came from a little garrison that nobody’d heard of, as if it was a damned crime. This time I’m better than I’ve ever been and I come from the biggest garrison in Wirran, but the doubters are still quacking away wherever I go. Present company excepted, of course. If I win, I win. If I don’t, I don’t. I still feel like I did last time, you know. Whoever wins it, the forest will still keep on growing and the moons and stars will still light up the night skies, and the sun will still put in a full day’s work. Whatever we do here is really…er…irrelevant in the scheme of things.”
“You know that’s the rankest heresy, Rowan, don’t you?”
“Aye, ‘tis,” he laughed again.
They chatted happily for a bit longer before Telli suddenly became serious.
“Rowan, what’s happening with Rollo of Plait? You know we’re always the last to know anything here,” he said with some justification.
Rowan frowned. The Duke of the neighbouring province had decided that parts of several others, like Wirran, Bettra and Sian, should belong to Plait as he claimed they had in centuries past.
“I’ll try and make sure you hear about things if I can, Telli, but as for Rollo… I don’t really know. He’s a mad bugger. He’s even crossed our border a couple of times, burnt some farms and things, and injured some folk. He’s a bloody criminal, truly.” Rowan sighed. “I think we should reinforce that northern border and teach him a damned good lesson next time he comes over, but of course the Commandant won’t have it.”
“You think Rollo might do something else?” Telli asked in surprise.
Rowan nodded, his face grim.
“Aye, I do. I don’t think he’s going to stop at burning a few houses and barns and haystacks. I think he’s dangerous and should be stopped now rather than later,” he said slowly, “He won’t get over the mountains into Sian, but Wirran isn’t protected like that.”
“Then you won’t be pleased to know that he’s here…”
Rowan stared at Telli in surprise.
“Here? In Den Sorl? Truly…? Take some of my troops if you need them to see him off,” he said.
Telli shook his head.
“I can’t, Rowan, much as I’d like to… he’s here for the Trophy.”
“Is he indeed? I hope I’m the one who sends him packing then,” he said, an unfamiliar menace in his soft voice.
**********
As it happened, Rowan did meet up with Duke Rollo in the Round of Sixteen. Rowan’s form had been stunning, he hadn’t lost a single round in the best-of-three-round elimination bouts that made up each Round, and even the most sceptical of naysayers was talking up his chances of being the first dual Champion ever. As always, Rowan simply paid them no heed and got on with the job he was there to do. Rollo had done well too, but he’d had a couple of scares on his way to the Round of Sixteen.
Rowan strode into the competition circle to a loud roar of approval. He stood quietly waiting for Rollo, wondering why the man didn’t get a move on. It had always irritated him that opponents thought they could keep everyone waiting for as long as they felt like, but it had never yet intimidated him or put him off his game. It hadn’t when he was barely eighteen and it certainly wouldn’t now. Ah, here comes his magnificence at last, he thought as he heard the jeers and hisses of the large Wirran component of the onlookers and all those who didn’t like to see such disrespect to the reigning Champion.
Rollo swaggered into the circle and glared at Rowan and the crowd. He was thirty-two, a very big man, close to six and a half feet tall and heavily built for a swordsman. That he was a very good swordsman was undeniable, his mere presence in the Round of Sixteen proved that. He was very powerful and very fast for such a huge man and he used his size to intimidate his opponents. He’d been beaten in the Round of Sixteen in the last Trophy tournament, but he thought he could do better than that this time.
Looking across at the current Champion gave him pause though. He’d faced Rowan many times over the years in various Tournaments and Trials, but the young Siannen had always beaten him handily, being completely unimpressed by Rollo’s physical stature: he was a forester after all, almost as tall as the Duke himself, and his father and most of his kin were considerably larger. The mere size of a competitor didn’t upset him at all; to Rowan the thought was laughable. And Rollo could see that he looked very calm and collected and very fit indeed as he stood quietly waiting for the referee to finish reciting the formalities.
An embarrassingly short time later Rollo found himself disarmed and staring at the beautiful curved blade of a g’Hakken sabre at his chest.
“Round one of three goes to Captain del’Quist of Den Siddon,” the referee declared solemnly.
“I protest!” Rollo shouted as Rowan walked back to his second. Fess, it was, standing in place of Johan. Rowan stopped in his tracks and stared back over his shoulder in astonishment. How could the man possibly dispute it when he’d been disarmed? It meant an automatic end to that round.
The referees wondered the same thing as the crowd shouted scornfully at the Duke.
“I protest that this man is permitted to use a g’Hakken blade in this Tournament!” Rollo bellowed again, “It’s not fair to the rest of us! He should be disqualified!”
“Nobody’s bloody worried about it in the last five hundred years, you bastard,” Fess muttered angrily, “And you didn’t either until Rowan beat you so easily.”
“You’re protesting about his sabre?” one of the judges demanded, bewildered.
“Yes, I am! Him using a blade like that isn’t right! It’s cheating!” Rollo said very loudly. He was determined he wasn’t going to let his last chance at the Trophy pass him by. Maybe if Rowan was forced to use an unfamiliar blade he might be beatable. Even better, he might be able to get him expelled from the Trophy.<
br />
Rowan stared at Rollo, unable to believe what he’d just heard. Fess noticed his intense stillness and hurried over to stand beside him, putting one hand on his arm in support and warning.
There was a lot of shouting and arm waving as the judges tried to make themselves heard above the jeering crowd.
“SHUT UP ALL OF YOU!” an unmistakably Siannen voice roared suddenly and there was instant silence.
Thank you, Uncle Kieran, Rowan thought, outraged at the suggestion that he was a cheat. He’d never cheated at anything in his life and he wasn’t about to start now. He felt Fess’s warning grip and heard him saying something about keeping calm and he took a deep breath and a firm grasp of his sometimes-fiery temper.
The chief judge, a short thickset Thallassian, stepped forward.
“Er… thank you, Sir,” he said, aiming it in the general direction of the group of angry Siannens sitting in the tiers of seats behind Rowan and Fess. He glared at Rollo.
“The protest is dismissed,” he said firmly.
“But it’s not right! It’s cheating!” Rollo yelled again.
“Your protest is dismissed. There is certainly no cheating or dishonesty here,” the judge repeated even more decisively.
Rollo stood over the judge threateningly.
“I protest your ruling!” he hissed.
Fess tightened the hand on Rowan’s arm as the little Thallassian judge seemed to almost puff himself up like an infuriated rooster.
“You can’t protest our bloody ruling! It’s unanimous, you fool! Your protest is dismissed! Now get ready for the next round or you will be disqualified yourself,” he snapped, outraged at Rollo’s attempted intimidation.
As Rollo opened his mouth to argue further, Rowan stepped forward leaving Fess slightly behind him.
“Enough!” he said quietly, still holding onto his temper very firmly, “I am not a cheat, and I take exception to your saying that I am, but if it’ll shut you up Rollo, I’ll use my second’s blade. Will that suit you?” At Rollo’s smirk and nod, Rowan continued, “And we’ll disregard the result of that first round too. I won’t have it said that I beat you dishonestly.”