Red Rowan: Book 1: Forester's son

by Helen Gosney

  “But you don’t have to…” the judge began.

  “It’s all right, Sir,” Rowan said reasonably, “I’ll use the Lieutenant’s blade when Duke Rollo is ready to continue.” He turned to Fess. “Fess, would you mind swapping sabres with me for a few minutes, please?”

  Fess gaped at him.

  “Rowan, you can’t throw away the bout like this! You haven’t practiced with this blade, nor used one like it for years. You can’t just… just throw it all away…”

  Rowan smiled.

  “Of course I can, Fess. Just watch me. I’ll do whatever it takes to shut this arrogant loudmouthed bastard up,” he said, “I’d fight him with a feather duster if I had to.”

  “But Rowan…” Fess tried again. His friend looked calm, but Fess knew him too well to be fooled. Rowan was furiously angry and Rollo would be very lucky if he didn’t get one or both of the sabres shoved down his throat.

  “Your sabre please, Fess. And don’t cut yourself with this one, ‘tis sharp.”

  He took Fess’s sabre and tossed it from hand to hand a few times as he felt the heft and balance of it. Oh dear. He missed his beautiful g’Hakken sabre already.

  He tossed his long braid back over his shoulder and stood ready to continue the bout.

  **********

  Two seven-minute bouts later and Duke Rollo of Plait was eliminated from the Champions’ Trophy in the most humiliating way that Rowan could manage to devise. Even using an unfamiliar blade, he’d simply been far too good for him; Rowan had danced around Rollo and run him ragged, leaving him looking like a clumsy buffoon; he’d used his blade in either hand unpredictably; he’d whispered the sabre across Rollo’s arm or body, touching him without breaking the skin and neatly shaving off any hairs in the way; and in the final twenty seconds or so of both rounds had disarmed him with ridiculous ease, knocking his blade far out of his reach. The second time Rollo had gulped against the blade pressing lightly at his throat, his eyes bulging in fear. He’d managed to do nothing but look completely incompetent, and the more frustrated and enraged he got, the more ludicrous he’d looked. Rowan had barely raised a sweat, while Rollo was standing befuddled in the centre of the circle gasping for breath. It was a virtuoso display of an astounding talent.

  The awed referee fumbled his way through the announcement of the result to a stunned, completely silent crowd. “Captain Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist of… um… Den Siddon is the winner of the Tro… er, of this contest of best-of-three rounds in the Round of Sixteen with a score of three… of, er, two to nil. Duke Rollo of Plait is eliminated from the Champions’ Trophy tournament.”

  Rollo’s great chest was still heaving as he struggled for breath. Rowan stepped a little closer to him and looked him in the eyes.

  “I don’t shake hands with the likes of you,” he said softly and clearly, “But I’ve never enjoyed beating anyone so much. We Siannens are not cheats and we and the folk of Wirran don’t belong to Plait either. If you ever come near me or mine with a weapon of any sort and an intent to do harm, I will kill you. And if you come unarmed with the same intent, you will wish that I had.”

  He turned and shook hands with the stunned referee and the judges and then strode back to retrieve his g’Hakken blade from Fess before he cut himself with it. The crowd of onlookers broke into thunderous cheers and applause.

  “You heard him! He threatened to kill me!” Rollo wheezed as loudly as he could. “He should be disqualified and barred from competition!”

  The referee shook his head. He wasn’t about to let this arrogant bastard tell him what was what.

  “I’m sorry, Sir, I can’t quite hear you. The crowd is very noisy,” he said, thinking that the Warrior God, great Beldar himself, couldn’t have beaten this Siannen today. What might the man have done with the g’Hakken sabre he’d trained with for ten years?

  “He threatened to kill me, you bloody idiot! He should be disqualified!” Rollo howled.

  The referee smiled blandly, hoping his face was as unreadable as Rowan’s had been.

  “No, Sir, I certainly didn’t hear him say anything like that. You’re mistaken,” he said, “And you should mind your tongue, Sir. Insulting folk will achieve nothing.” Nothing but the most incredible retaliation and the most humiliating thrashing I’ve ever seen, he thought happily.

  **********

  “Rowan… how did you…? I’ve never seen anything like that…” Fess managed as Rowan came over to him. He’d barely remembered to close his mouth again.

  “No?” Rowan said as if he thought that Fess needed to get out more, “I just hope I never need to do it again, but that bastard had it coming. Now, let’s go, Fess.”

  Rowan breezed through the last few Rounds and found himself the only dual Champion ever. He’d felt no need to humiliate anyone else as he had Rollo, but even so his swordsmanship had been stunning and nobody had ever looked like beating him. He hadn’t lost a single round in the entire tournament, something that had been achieved barely half a dozen times in the five hundred year history of the Tournament.

  He stood with his family and friends as he waited for the dignitaries to get themselves organised again. At least Gran couldn’t find fault with his appearance this time, he thought with a smile as he looked down at his immaculate black uniform.

  “So why aren’t you at the back of the platform polishing your buttons, lad?” Finn asked with a laugh.

  “I’m taking your advice, Finn. I’m staying around this side with my friends, they can call me up from here just as easily as if they’d stowed me around the back,” Rowan said.

  “And what advice was that exactly?” the g’Hakken dwarf asked curiously.

  “You told me last time I was the Champion and if anyone didn’t like it, too bad,” Rowan smiled at his friend, “It seems to me that must still stand. Besides, they still haven’t put a decent chair around there for the poor exhausted Champion who’s, er…” suddenly his voice was clipped and nasal, uncannily like the Commandant’s, “Worked so hard to achieve this unique honour, the useless Siannen bastard,” he said, po-faced. “So damn them,” he added, his voice his own again.

  “You’re incorrigible, Rowan!” Fess spluttered with laughter.

  Rowan shrugged and smiled at him.

  “I do my best,” he said modestly.

  “Rowan, what are we going to do with you?” Dann said, his face serious.

  Rowan looked down at him. He was g’Hakken too, Finn’s son, who’d helped to make his beautiful sabre.

  “Why would you want to do anything to me?” Rowan asked, “It’s a good thing that these old buggers don’t get things all their own way.” He waved a casual hand at the assembling dignitaries.

  “I didn’t mean about that,” Dann said in a worried sort of way. “You’ll have to take up using a sabre in each hand, like the Heroes used to do in the tales.”

  “Bloody Hells, Dann! I’m no damned Hero!” Rowan laughed at his concerned face. “And, no offence intended to you or the clan, but I truly don’t need another sabre. I’ve already got a very fine one. Give it to the runner-up or keep it till the next Trophy comes around.”

  “Rowan! I can’t do that!” Finn spluttered indignantly, “You’ve just won the bloody sabre and you have to accept it!”

  “Finn… I’m sorry, I truly do not mean to be offensive. I would never insult you, but… what am I meant to do with another sabre? The one I’ve got is superb and I simply don’t need another one. You’ve always said the blades should be used, they shouldn’t just be put up on a wall to gather dust, but… I’m certainly not going to use a second one in the other hand, and… well, there’s no point in putting it under the damned bed in case this one breaks, is there?”

  Finn looked up at him angrily for a long moment. Suddenly the dwarf chuckled.

  “No, lad. There’s no point in doing that. Your sabre will never break, not even if you face Beldar himself with it,” he said with a smile at the absurdity of it, “But as Dann said
, what the hell are we going to do with you?”

  “Let me think on it…” he pondered the problem for a while and thought he might have found a solution. “What would you think about making an axe?”

  “An axe? Of course we can make you an axe. Good idea. You’re good with an axe.”

  Rowan braced himself for another argument with his prickly dwarf friend. He was damned nearly as stubborn as a Siannen, he thought.

  “Not a battle axe, Finn, A proper woodcutter’s axe, so I can give it to Pa…”

  “Rowan! You can’t just give away a g’Hakken blade or axe to anyone else.”

  “Pa isn’t just anyone else,” he said reasonably.

  “But the balance of it will be all wrong! You know what a great big tall bugger he is. No, it wouldn’t do at all.”

  Rowan’s family and friends watched as the two of them butted heads like a pair of billy goats. Fess thought they were probably equally stubborn. He could see Rowan’s line of reasoning, but he was sympathetic to the dwarf’s viewpoint too.

  Finally Rowan said in fluent Dwar, “I apologise, Finn. I never meant to be disrespectful to you or our clan, and I certainly didn’t mean to upset you like this. Truly, I only went in the damned tournament to see if I could win it again, when so many people were saying I couldn’t; I never gave a thought to the prize. If I’d known it would lead to such an argument between us I would never have entered it at all. But I really don’t need another sabre, nor anything else, to remind me I’ve won it. I’m pretty sure there’ll be plenty of folk who’ll do that for me, like there was last time. More, I suppose now.

  “You really would give any axe we made for you to Rhys, wouldn’t you?” Finn said. At Rowan’s nod, he shook his head ruefully. “Gods, you’re a bloody stubborn bugger, Rowan. It wouldn’t be right for Rhys to have to use a g’Hakken axe that wasn’t perfect for him… it just wouldn’t be right. Good tools are important, and they should suit their wielder as well as your sabre suits you.

  Rowan shook his head slowly.

  “Finn, I’ve apologised and I meant it. I’m truly sorry to be the cause of such a problem for you,” he said, “Would you be offended if I asked you to think about crafting a woodcutter’s axe for Pa himself?”

  Finn looked at him intently again. It had been a heartfelt apology from the lad after all.

  “What do you think, Dann?” He said.

  Dann looked from his father to his friend and kinsman uncomfortably.

  “I think… er…” He cleared his throat, “I think we should make Rhys a woodcutter’s axe. ‘Tis what the Champion has asked us to do.”

  Finn stared at him, then nodded slowly. He’d forgotten his own words but he was very sure that Rowan hadn’t. He’d simply been too polite to throw them back at him.

  “Aye, so it is. My apologies, Rowan, for ignoring your wishes like that. I was wrong and I was disrespectful of you. And I forgot my own advice. I was just… shocked, I suppose. Nobody has ever turned down a g’Hakken blade before,” the dwarf smiled suddenly. “ Now all we have to worry about is how the hell we’re going to fit your Pa into our houses, great tall bugger that he is. It might have to be the barn for him.”

  They stood together in the boisterous crowd, apologies accepted and their argument forgotten. In due course Rowan strode up to the platform and made his acceptance speech, very like the one he’d delivered ten years before. The organisers of the Tournament were astounded when he thanked the dwarves for the axe they would make for his father, but they quickly quietened when Rowan turned to them and raised one questioning eyebrow. He thanked them for their efforts in organising the competition, thanked the judges, referees and his opponents and left the stage to the thunderous applause due to the only dual Champions’ Trophy winner ever.

  **********

  A bit later that night, when Rowan had finally managed to get away from all of the people who wanted to shake his hand or slap him on the back, he took Finn and Dann to one side so that he could speak to them privately.

  “Finn, I don’t want to alarm you, but I think you should let the kin in the north know about Rollo,” Rowan said, his face very serious.

  “About Rollo? ‘Twas wonderful what you did to the bastard, of course the story will get around,” Finn said in surprise.

  “No, I didn’t mean that,” he shook his head and hesitated for a moment. “Finn, Rollo’s been crossing the border, burning farms and things up that way. He says he’s taking back his ancestral lands, if you can believe it. Trouble is, of course, nobody in their right mind wants to belong to him. And he’s getting more violent too, he cut a man’s hand off when the poor fellow tried to stand up to his damned thugs,” Rowan could see he had the dwarves’ full attention now. “I truly think he’s dangerous. Your village is a good long way from him, you’re safe enough, but… look, I know the folk up there won’t leave, but we simply don’t have enough Guardsmen along that border to protect everyone. Just tell them to be very bloody wary about Rollo; tell them not to try and fight him unless there’s absolutely no other choice. I know they won’t like that, but ‘tis better to lose your house than your family. His men are well armed and well trained and truly, they’re a violent lot.”

  “You really think he could… could harm them?” Dann asked, wide-eyed.

  “Oh aye, he could harm them all right. He’s a bloody lunatic. The Commandant won’t take him seriously, he just won’t see that there’s a threat at all, but…please, just warn them. I don’t want to frighten them over nothing, but I… I truly think the man is dangerous,” Rowan said carefully. “I don’t think anything’ll happen for a while, he’s still getting organised so it could be months, but…

  The dwarves stared at him in shock. Living in the southwest of Wirran as they did, they were well removed from Plait and Duke Rollo, but they knew that Rowan, as Captain of Den Siddon, received reports from Guard posts all over the province. And they knew he didn’t get worried over nothing. If he was concerned enough about Rollo to speak to them like this, then they should certainly take heed.

  “Aye, Rowan. We’ll tell them what you’ve said. As you say, they won’t leave their lands, but at least they’ll know to be careful,” Finn said at last.

  Rowan nodded, relieved that his friends had taken his warning as seriously as he’d hoped they would. “Very bloody careful, Finn. Tell them to be very, very bloody careful…

  **********

  14. “Oh, dear. You really did upset him, didn’t you!”

  It was mid-morning on a fine sunny day and all was peaceful in the garrison stables, as it usually was. Recruits Thom Blunt and Bryn Harsson were talking quietly as they mucked out stalls and tended the horses, when they heard the agitated clatter of hooves in the cobbled yard outside, followed by cursing and meaty-sounding blows and the high aggrieved scream of a horse that feels itself badly done by.

  “What the hell’s going on out there, Bryn?” Thom asked his friend anxiously. It didn’t sound very nice, whatever it was.

  “I don’t know, but I’m going to find out…”

  A tall lithe man appeared from one of the stalls.

  “Don’t worry, lads. I’ll take care of it,” he said as he headed for the door.

  Both recruits stared at him for a moment, then saluted quickly. They’d forgotten their Captain was even here, quietly taking care of his own two stallions as he always did. He didn’t look too pleased with whoever was outside.

  As he reached the doorway a wild-eyed brown mare plunged towards him, throwing her head high as her rider sawed viciously at her mouth. Rowan jumped nimbly out of the way and then turned and grabbed the mare’s bridle. She dragged him a couple of steps then stopped and stood trembling as he patted her sweaty neck and tried to soothe her. The rider glared down at him, unable to see much in the gloom of the stables after the bright sunshine outside.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the rider shouted in an irritatingly nasal voice. “Get your hands off my bloody horse!
” He raised his whip threateningly.

  “No. And if you think you’re going to hit me like you’ve been hitting this poor creature, you’ve got another think coming,” Rowan turned to the gaping recruits, “Could you leave us please, lads. I need to speak to this… this person in private.”

  “Aye, Sir,” they said in unison as they saluted again and hurried out.

  The newcomer was so enraged that he didn’t pick up on this vital clue. All he could see was a tall broad-shouldered shape with its hair in a long braid, fussing at his horse’s head. A bloody Siannen, he thought. Must be some cursed relative of the Captain’s, working here in the stables. The damned cheek of the fellow, touching his horse like that. I’ll have him, Captain’s relation or not. After all, his own uncle was the Commandant; he had little to fear from anyone and certainly not from some Siannen stableman.

  “Do you know who I am?” he demanded haughtily.

  “No, but I’m fairly sure you do and I’d imagine you’re just about to tell me,” came the calm reply.

  “I’m Lieutenant Kendall Lorrissen, you insolent bloody idiot, and my uncle is the Commandant of the Wirran Guard!” He swung his whip viciously at the impertinent Siannen’s head and unexpectedly found himself landing hard on the floor on his backside.

  “A pleasure to meet you at last, Lieutenant… I was starting to wonder if I should be sending out a search party for you. But I’m afraid your pedigree is of absolutely no interest to me, and I’m sure mine is of even less interest to you. Nevertheless, my name is Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist.” Rowan looked down at him. Yes, he could see a family resemblance in the short stocky Guardsman before him. Something about the small, close-set pale blue eyes and the arrogant sneer and sense of entitlement, he thought. And the voice too. “Captain of this garrison,” he added helpfully.