by Helen Gosney
The Thallassian was very, very good, as of course he had to be just to be in the Round of Sixteen, but he found himself disarmed by a move that he never saw coming, a bare minute later.
He fared even worse in the second round of the match, lasting perhaps thirty seconds. He’d tried hard, but found that his best hadn’t been good enough; he’d simply had no answer to Rowan’s speed, power, and sheer ability.
“Great bloody Beldar! If I hadn’t seen it myself, I wouldn’t have believed it!” Marcus said, “That damned Thallassian’s the best swordsman in his province!”
“Not any more, he’s not!” somebody behind him said happily.
“Told you he’d get his backside kicked, didn’t I?” Caleb laughed, “It takes more than a bloody Thallassian and a sore ankle to stop a Forest Giant, especially one as stubborn as Rowan!”
**********
“… he was simply bloody devastating, injured ankle or not. I’ve never seen anyone so focussed on the job in hand, so light and fast on their feet, and he’s so damned strong,” Marcus said slowly, “The foresters say that he’s only small, and compared to most of them I suppose he is, but don’t be fooled by that. He’s a big, powerful man, but he’s certainly not a lumberer like some. He can still turn handsprings and things like a lad and they say he ran the Trophy squad and everybody else at Den Siddon ragged. He’s truly incredible with a blade and astoundingly fast. Well, he’s a Weapons Master, isn’t he? Don’t forget that. I can’t wait to meet him.”
“They say he’s very approachable and easygoing, Sir, don’t they?” Alben said.
“Aye, they do. They also say that he can be very bloody blunt and he doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but the man’s a forester, after all. They’re all like that,” Marcus said, “The men of Den Siddon say he’s the best Captain they ever had, and they’ve had some fine men there.”
“And there’s all the other things too, Sir…”
“Aye, there are indeed. ‘Tis said that he doesn’t like a lot of fuss about everything he’s done, though. Mind you, we shall be properly respectful of him unless he tells us otherwise,” Marcus said sternly.
“Aye, Sir! Of course, Sir!” came the quick response of the other Engineers. This was Red Rowan they were talking about, after all.
They trotted on towards the little town and the farm that lay a couple of miles outside it. A conversation with Captain Fess of Den Siddon came to Marcus’ mind.
“Don’t be surprised if he thanks you politely and then tells you to stop saluting him and calling him ‘Sir’ while you’re there in Sian,” Fess had said with a grin.
Marcus had been shocked to the core.
“But… but we couldn’t do that, Sir! He’s… he’s Red Rowan! He’s the Triple bloody Champion! And even more important than all that, Sir, he’s the holder of the Star of Yaarl. It’s not been awarded for…”
“… two hundred years. Aye, I know all that, and so does Rowan, believe me. Now, this is all in strict confidence, of course, Marcus… but… well, it’s hard to explain, truly. It’s just… all those things that he’s done are simply not that important to him…” Fess had hurried on as he saw the shocked look on the other man’s face, “Don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean that he doesn’t respect the Star, because he certainly does, but… frankly, Marcus, it cost him a hell of a lot… in lost troopers and in every other way too. It cost him too bloody much, truly, and he’s still paying the price for it all. He says that he doesn’t like, need, or want to be reminded of it, and I think we must respect that.”
“But, Sir, we must acknowledge it…”
Fess had nodded slowly.
“Aye, of course you must. But not all the time… just once will be enough, I promise you. Don’t worry, he’ll tell you himself, I’m sure.”
“But, Sir…”
“What the Champion wants, the Champion gets, as they say. And Marcus, that goes even more for the man who bears the Star of Yaarl. Rowan won’t put it like that, but if he wants no fuss made, then that’s what must and will happen, one way or another,” Fess had smiled then, “Don’t let Rowan’s beautiful manners deceive you, lad. He’s an iron fist in a velvet glove, as the saying is. We’ve been friends for a hell of a long time, and I’d trust him with my life, but even I’d have to say that he’s as stubborn as a team of bloody mules that got out of the wrong side of their beds, when the mood takes him.”
**********
Marcus thought perhaps he’d better not share that bit with his men, though it was no secret that Rowan was as stubborn as any forester ever born. He’d never have been able to get all those men home from Messton if he hadn’t been. No, Marcus decided, he’d take Captain Fess’s advice and acknowledge the Champion as was proper, then stop saluting and shut up about it all when told. They’d be here in Sian for a few months after all, and he certainly didn’t want to get off on the wrong foot with Rowan or, by extension, his clan who’d be helping with the building.
**********
They came into the little town that was tucked into the trees as every forester town and village seemed to be, and stopped outside the smithy. Fess had said that was probably the easiest way to find somebody to take him out to Rowan’s farm, as there was always somebody hanging about there.
“But, Sir, I can read a bloody map!” Marcus had protested.
“Aye, so can I, and I could draw you one too, but… well, let’s just say that the forest can be confusing, and unless you know what a scribblebark looks like, you’d miss Rowan’s turn and never be seen again,” Fess had said with a grin.
“A… a what, Sir?”
“A scribblebark. It’s a gum tree with bark that peels back and underneath it looks like somebody’s been writing on it. There’s a big one on the corner where you turn off to go to Rowan’s, but no… I truly think you’ll be better going to the smithy or the inn and asking somebody to take you out to the farm. Nobody’ll mind, I promise you. And in the case of the dwarves at the smithy, some of the younger ones will be happy to have a bit of a break.”
“Aye, Sir,” Marcus had said.
**********
The dwarves were only too pleased to help them out.
“Young Emory, here, can take you. He might as well make himself a bit bloody useful today,” the blacksmith said, tousling the rather shaggy hair of a young dwarf.
“Yes, Grandpa. I’ll look after them. Rowan said they’d likely be coming through sometime this week, didn’t he?” the youngster said with a grin.
“Mind you don’t take them through the trees though, laddie. They can learn that way while they’re here, but for now just take them by the road. Oh, and while you’re at it, you could take a couple of those little kegs of nails too, please.”
“Oh… all right. I’ll just get Magpie and we’ll be off.” He hurried off and returned a surprisingly short time later mounted bareback on a piebald pony. A pair of saddlebags containing two stout kegs of nails was slung over the pony’s broad back.
“Thank you for your help, Sir,” Marcus said to the smith as the troop turned themselves around to follow Emory and Magpie.
“You’re very welcome, lad. I hope you’ll enjoy your stay here in the trees.”
“I’m sure we will, Sir. We’ve all done nothing but gawp at them for the last week or so.”
“Ha! Everyone does that, lad. Even us, sometimes. Why wouldn’t you?”
“Why indeed? They’re wonderful, and I truly never thought I’d hear myself say that about trees,” Marcus said. He shook Master Smith Jeldaron’s hand, then remounted and trotted after his guide.
**********
22. “I’m not ‘Sir’ here, either”
“Here we are, Sir. We turn down here, then ‘tis only another mile or so,” Emory said when they’d gone a couple of miles down the road. It was fairly wide and in good condition, and the forest was thick and beautiful along the edges of it, though it thinned out a bit when another road ran off to one side or the other.
Marcus looked around for the mysterious scribblebark. If he was here in Sian, he’d have to learn a bit about the local trees, wouldn’t he? Bugger me, he thought, the damned things all look alike: a brown, woody bit at the bottom and a green, leafy bit at the top… no, wait a minute, maybe they bloody don’t after all…
“Is that the, um, scribblebark, Emory?” he said, pointing at a tree growing right at the corner. It looked small compared to the towering Forest Giants, but then anything would. His expert opinion was that it was about a hundred and twenty feet tall.
“Yes, Sir. That’s it. See how it is underneath where the old bark’s peeled back?”
“Aye… strange, isn’t it?”
Marcus and the troopers looked at the tree more closely and saw that it did indeed look as if someone had been busily writing and scribbling on the pale, newly exposed bark.
“What causes that, Emory? Or do you lads run around writing on the damned trees to confuse everyone?” Gavin asked with a grin.
The dwarf laughed happily at the suggestion.
“’Tis a bloody good idea, Sir, but no. We don’t have to bother ourselves with all that because the little beetles and grubs and things under the bark do it for us. ‘Tis good, isn’t it?”
“Aye, laddie, it certainly is.”
**********
“Will you be staying here long, Sir?” Emory asked as they neared the last bend in the track before the farm.
“Not really sure yet, laddie,” Marcus said, listening to the sound of hoofbeats in a regular rhythm not far away, “At least a couple of months, and likely three or four, I’d imagine. Depends on how it all goes.”
“The clans are good builders, Sir. You’ll be surprised,” Emory replied, “’Tis just around this corner now, Sir. Oh… look at that!”
The troop halted as one as two dogs ran toward them, and stopped in front of them with a single ‘woof’, but it wasn’t really the dogs that’d stopped them. No, it was the most surprising sight of five people riding horses in a drill that was unexpectedly familiar to them, as Guardsmen. They were riding one behind the other, quite close together, at a slow, collected canter. They rode in a big circle, and then in a figure of eight, then back in a straight line again. The ones at the rear sped up a little to ride in line abreast for a few paces, and then they wheeled in unison and set off in the opposite direction. Finally they came to a halt in an almost perfect line.
“Bugger me, Sir! I haven’t seen it done that well for a bloody long time,” Gavin said softly.
“Me either. It’s a hell of a lot harder than it looks,” Marcus said, “Ah, here comes the Champion now. Prepare to greet him properly, lads!”
Rowan trotted toward them on a fine dark bay colt, leaving the others where they were for now.
“Hello, lads. Hello, young Emory, thanks for bringing the nails with you. We’ll be needing them soon enough,” he said, then tried very hard not to swear as the troopers saluted him as one.
“A good day to you, Sir,” Marcus said, “Lieutenant Marcus Andersson, Engineering Corps, Sir, Den Mohr.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Lieutenant, and thank you for the honour that you and your men do me… I truly do appreciate it,” Rowan said, switching from Common to Wirran. He knew that the troopers would be shocked to the core by what he was about to say, and he was determined that they’d truly get the message. Sure enough, the Troop Leader looked a bit apprehensive, but resigned as well. Maybe Fess had spoken to the fellow as he, Rowan, had asked him to. “But you don’t need to be saluting me here, and truly, I’d much prefer it if you didn’t. Oh, and please, call me Rowan. I’m not ‘Sir’ here, either.”
No, here he was simply Rhys d’Rhuary’s little lad who’d gone and left the trees for some bloody daft reason until he finally saw sense and came back home, and that was just the way he liked it.
“But, Sir, we… we can’t do that!” Marcus managed. He was surprised at Rowan’s perfect - if intriguingly accented - Wirran. He realised immediately that he shouldn’t be, and hoped devoutly that nobody’d noticed.
“Of course you can. It’ll just take a bit of practice, that’s all. Nobody calls me ‘Sir’ around here, if they know what’s good for them. Besides, I fully intend to call you ‘Marcus’, and your men by their use names as well, so ‘tis only fair that you do the same to me,” Rowan said, “And now, come and meet the others. My cousin and his wife speak excellent Wirran, but the others don’t. Oh, and I’m sorry we didn’t stop the drill when you came, but ‘tisn’t a good idea for these young horses to think they can just stop in the middle of things.”
“No, I suppose not. Sir, they were doing it really well, but why are you teaching them that?”
“Because most of them are destined to join the Guard of one province or another and it doesn’t hurt for them to have a bit of learning under their belts… er, girths. We’re getting them ready to take to Frissender and ‘tisn’t all that long to go now,” Rowan said as the others came over to introduce themselves. He changed effortlessly back to Common, “And please, ‘tis ‘Rowan’. I know it’s a shock to the system, but I truly would prefer that you all call me that. Just ask young Emory, here.”
The troopers looked down at the youngster sitting happily on his pony, watching them. He smiled up at them and nodded.
“Aye, Sir,” they said in unison.
A single muttered word in Dwar from Rowan made Emory blush, then laugh a bit guiltily.
**********
The young dwarf disappeared into the trees after he’d handed over the nails, then had a refreshing drink of Honi’s lemonade and a couple of Rowan’s fruit scones. They weren’t as light as those that Honi made, but all the same they were surprisingly good.
“That’s not the way we came,” Alben said, puzzled.
“No, but ‘tis the shortest way back to town. We’ll show you the way, don’t worry,” Griff said, “And now, what are we going to do with you lot? Do you want to stay in your tents, or do you want to stay in the foaling barn? ‘Tisn’t being used for now, and we’ve cleaned it out for you if you want to use it.”
“Well, we thought we’d just use the tents, but if you’ve gone to all the trouble of clearing out the barn…” Marcus said, surprised at such consideration.
“It wasn’t a problem to clean it out, and to be truthful we do that after the foaling’s over anyway. But the nights can be surprisingly cold here, we thought you might be glad of a bit of extra shelter,” Rowan said, “All the same, ‘tis up to you what you do. We won’t be offended if you decide to stick with your tents, and the barn will still be there if it starts to rain.”
“It will rain in a couple of days,” Rill said thoughtfully, “Not tomorrow, but late the next day. I think it will rain quite a bit.”
“Well, there you are. Rill is a bloody good weather forecaster, Marcus. If he says it’s going to rain, then it truly is,” Rowan said.
“Really? Then perhaps it had better be the barn for us, then.”
**********
The foaling barn was a sturdy, good-sized – and, inevitably - timber building with a dozen large, airy loose boxes. It was very clean, the packed earthen floor was well swept, and really, there were no traces that horses had ever been in it apart from a couple of old, deep hoof prints and a few wisps of hay in the mangers.
“We didn’t put straw down in case it makes you sneeze like it does Rowan sometimes,” Honi said with a smile, “But we can easily do that if you want us to.”
“No, no, my lady. That’s not necessary at all,” Marcus said hastily, “Besides, these useless lumps of lads I’ve brought with me can easily do that if need be.”
“As you like, then. Oh, and I thank you for the courtesy, Marcus, but you’ll find that I’m not a ‘lady’ at all. Just call me Honi,” she said, “Did Rowan tell you that you’re welcome to join us for your meals? In fact, we sort of thought that you would…”
“Oh. We… er… we weren’t expecting that, my lady…er, Honi. Gavin is
our cook.”
“Is he a good cook, or is he bloody awful like every other poor damned trooper who’s been roped into the job?” Rowan asked, trying not to laugh at the Wirrans’ stunned faces. They were so easy to shock, he thought happily. He and Griff would have to remember not to overdo it though.
“He’s bloody awful, Sir,” came a low reply from the back of the ranks.
“At least I’m better than you, Alben! You nearly killed us all off when you last cooked for us,” Gavin said indignantly.
“Aye, I’m even worse than bloody awful, and so is Bayle,” Alben said sadly.
“Well, in that case, perhaps you’d better eat with us. The only one of us who’s bloody awful at cooking is Rill. Sorry, Rill lad, that wasn’t very polite of me, and you do cook fish well, if nothing else,” Griff said, trying not to laugh at the troopers’ byplay. Perhaps there might be some hope for these straight-laced Wirrans after all. “Don’t fret yourselves, lads. You won’t be putting us out at all. We feed the clansmen when they come, so a few extra won’t matter.”
“Then at least let us help you with er, preparation and such. The lads are passably good at peeling carrots and potatoes and things, and quite good at gutting fish and rabbits,” Marcus said, “They’re not even too bad at cleaning things up afterwards.”
“That’s a deal!” Honi said happily, “I hate gutting fish. Griff or Rowan always do it, but I’m sure they won’t mind sharing the job around a bit.”
“We most certainly won’t,” Griff said, with a quick glance at Rowan.
**********
23. “a private matter”
Gavin’s chance to speak with Rowan alone came mid afternoon of the second day. It happened that all of the other Engineers were busy elsewhere, looking at likely sites for the new building and talking to the foresters about the best timber to use atop their preferred stone foundations. Gavin had come back to look for another measuring tape and a level.