by Helen Gosney
“They’re very gentle, friendly little beasties, Toren. I don’t think they’ll give you any trouble. Even the little bull is good-natured,” Rowan said.
“But, Rowan, how the hell did you…?” Toren said as he busily patted the rest of the herd and inspected them at the same time.
“Well, I didn’t have to sell the next seven generations into slavery or pledge my soul to some sort of horrible warty Evil Daemon, if that’s what you’re thinking!” Rowan laughed, “The g’Farrien at home were talking about the cows, about how they wanted to get some, and I knew that you’d been wanting some as well. So I went with them to Bettra to see if the g’Lerran might be induced to part with a few, and to help bring them home if they would.”
Toren stared at him in amazement. The g’Lerran guarded their cattle like a snow tigress guards her kits and they sold them about every third or fourth blue moon.
“And…?” he said.
Rowan shrugged.
“Well, we must have got there on a good day, or we were all particularly charming, or something… anyway, here they are.”
“… As simple as that?”
“Aye,” Rowan smiled at him, “As simple as that. Oh, and I got the headman’s son down out of a bloody big pine tree too. That probably helped our cause a bit, I suppose.”
Toren shook his head. It was like getting blood from a stone sometimes, but one way and another life was seldom dull when Rowan was around.
“And what was the silly little bugger doing stuck in a bloody big pine tree, if you don’t mind me asking?”
Rowan shrugged again.
“He got stuck when a she-bear chased him up there.”
“A… a she-bear? But…”
“Aye. Poor little lad was looking for tingleberries, and so was the bear. Somehow he managed to get between her and her cubs and he ended up in this damned big pine tree. I doubt he even knew he could climb so well. The bear was having a bloody good try at it too, but luckily she was a bit big to get as high as young Therrel was,” Rowan tried not to laugh at the memory, but it did have its funny side too, “And of course the three cubs were all up another bloody tree because they were frightened too, and one of them went too high and got stuck as well.”
The dwarves who’d been listening to the story tried to picture it and suddenly wished they hadn’t. Yes, they knew that Rowan was a Whisperer, but still… she-bears were not to be trifled with, especially those with bawling cubs stuck in trees.
“So who did you get down first?” one of the younger dwarves wanted to know.
“The cub, Albie,” Rowan replied, “Poor little beastie was making so much noise, he was only upsetting his Ma even more. So I got him down, gave him and his Ma and his sisters the bag of berries that young Therrel’d dropped, and off they went about their business. Then I climbed the other tree and got the little lad down.” Rowan shook his head slightly. “Poor little Therrel. One of the g’Farrien boxed his ears for being so damned silly as to not keep well away from any bears, let alone one with cubs, and I’m pretty sure his Pa tanned his backside for him too, after he heard the story and made sure the lad was safe.”
Rowan moved an inquisitive bovine muzzle away from his braid and smiled happily.
“… And then they agreed to sell us some cattle, and here they are. Well, some of them. The g’Farrien took their share too, of course. I’ll help you fence in a bit of land for them, if you like. ‘Twill give me some practice with my new axe.”
Dann and Toren stared at him, barely remembering to close their mouths in time.
“Aye, so it will,” the Master Smith managed to say, “’Tis almost finished for you. Just a, um, a week or ten days, I think…”
**********
32. “‘Tis yours now…”
As Dann had said, Rowan’s new axe was almost ready for him. He’d hammered his sabre a couple of times himself as it was being forged, and hoped he might do the same with his new axe.
“Just as well you’re here now, Rowan lad,” Owen said with a grin, “Another week and it’d be too late for you to be able to do that. Mind you, we always think ‘tis better if folk do give their sabre or whatever a couple of good hard whacks while it’s being forged. Makes the thing better.”
Rowan didn’t understand why that would be, and the dwarves couldn’t really explain it; he wondered if it might simply be ‘Secret Smiths’ Business’. All the same, he was happy to hammer the axe a few times before the dwarves sent him off to make himself useful elsewhere. There was always plenty of work to be done and he found no difficulty in keeping himself occupied.
The three smiths watched him closely for a couple of days as he went about his business around the village, fitting into the dwarven way of life as if he’d never been away… apart from hitting his head on a few doorways and low roof beams, as he usually did until he got back into the way of it again.
They paid particular attention as he happily worked his way through a pile of logs, ending up with neat stacks of fireplace- and stove-sized pieces and kindling, and they made sure that the young dwarves watched him closely too.
“See how he stands, lads, see how relaxed he is, not all stiff and resentful like you lot are when you’re doing this,” Dann said, knowing full well that it was the most loathed job for young dwarves everywhere. Always had been, for some unfathomable reason, and always would be. “And watch how he holds the axe, not too tightly, but not so loosely that it flies out of his hand and chops some poor bugger’s head off. And see how he doesn’t waste any energy while he’s swinging the damned thing…”
The youngsters watched in amazement as the hated job that took them forever was done quickly and with obvious enjoyment, and with several verses of ‘the Bishop and the Bordello’ thrown in. The cleaner verses, of course.
“We’ll get Rowan to give you a few pointers, lads. Later, though,” Finn said as he carefully watched the play of muscles in Rowan’s strong lean body, “He might even teach you a few more verses of the song, if you’re lucky.”
Rowan laughed and winked at the young dwarves.
“Maybe I will, at that. Do you want it in Siannen or Dwar? Perhaps Bettran?”
“Oh! Bettran, please, Rowan!” came the chorus, as expected. Like the foresters, the dwarves liked to learn a new language when possible and they all spoke Siannen well. A chance to learn some Bettran wasn’t to be passed up and maybe Rowan might forget himself and teach them some of the more risqué verses of the famous - and seemingly endless - foresters’ song… there was no harm in hoping, after all.
**********
Ten days or so later, Rowan was sitting on the ground milking one of the little cows when he heard the familiar and expected call from Finn, “Rowan lad, ‘tis time. Can you come here, please?”
“Aye, Finn,” he replied, trying not to sound too excited, although he was, “Can I, um, just finish here, though? I’ll only be a few more minutes.”
Finn laughed.
“Aye, lad. ‘Tisn’t done to leave a poor beastie in the middle of being milked, is it? We’ll wait for you, don’t fret.”
“Thanks, Finn. I’m almost done…”
A couple of minutes later he stood up, patted the little cow, then stretched a few kinks out of his muscles. The cows were really too small for him to milk comfortably, and he wondered about strengthening the goats’ milking platform so the cows could use it too. Mentally kicking himself for woolgathering when he had somewhere else to be, he picked up the bucket of milk and headed off to where Finn and all of the g’Hakken were waiting patiently for him.
“Sorry to hold you up, everyone,” he said.
There was a general chorus of “don’t worry, lad” and “’tis all right, Rowan” as he hurried up. Then Finn’s wife, Anna, stepped in front of him, laughing.
“Rowan, you bloody ratbag! Give the milk to me, laddie!” she said.
Finn managed to wipe the smile off his face as Rowan came up to him and dropped to one knee in front of him, as
was proper for this usually solemn occasion.
“Daft bugger!” he muttered so that only Rowan heard, and then more loudly, “Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist, man of the Forest Giant and g’Hakken clans, will you accept this axe, made by our clan in honour of your victory in the Champions’ Trophy of this decade?”
Rowan looked at him, eyes bright with suppressed laughter. Even kneeling, he wasn’t all that much shorter than Finn.
“Aye, Master Smith Findarel, I will. I am honoured to accept it in the names of both of the clans, and I shall try to be worthy of it always. I thank you and the clan for it.”
“Here you are, then, laddie. ‘Tis yours now.”
Rowan looked down in wonder as Finn placed the axe across his outstretched hands. The dwarves had obviously been busy since he’d last seen it.
It was clearly a woodcutter’s axe, not a battle-axe, and it was superb: a shapely head of blue steel, with a narrow braided band of six strands of gold, silver and electrum that represented the Forest Giant clan braid, and etched on one side in silver and gold was a magnificent tree with several figures – unmistakeably foresters by their braids – standing beneath it. On the other side a forester stood among a group of dwarves. The detail was amazing… Rowan could even see the braiding of the dwarves’ beards. Deeply incised on the back of the axehead was the intricate rune of the g’Hakken, and the handle was a long shapely piece of densely grained timber bound with three bands of gold. The axe was gleaming brightly and wickedly sharp, as Rowan knew it always would be without any effort on his part, and the balance of it was perfect.
“’Tis magnificent, Finn, and Dann… and Owen too, of course. Thank you all,” he said.
And then, just as he had when he’d accepted his sabre twenty years ago, he took a deep breath, put both hands on the balance point of the axe’s handle and raised it in the formal salute of the swordsman that he was. Still kneeling, he lowered his head until his forehead rested against his hands and closed his eyes for a moment.
“Thank you,” he said softly.
There was a quiet murmur of appreciation from the clan. This man had lost none of his humility and grace over the years, no matter what he’d been through or what he’d achieved.
“Up you get, Rowan lad,” Dann said, “Give it a try and see what you think. Move back a bit, please, everyone.”
Rowan smiled at him, flowed to his feet and carefully tossed the magnificent axe from hand to hand as he always did with any weapon or tool. He’d used his father’s g’Hakken axe quite a few times and knew the perfection of it, but he knew that this one, crafted especially for him, would be even better. And of course it was. He laughed joyfully as he felt the flawlessness, the simple rightness of it in his hands; then, making sure the dwarves were standing well back, he moved into the intricate drill that he’d learnt as a lad and still did sometimes.
The dwarves had often seen him dancing with his sabre, but they hadn’t seen him do the same with an axe. They had seen Rhys do it when he’d received his own axe ten years ago, and that had been astonishing enough, but they soon saw that Rowan was even better.
“Bugger me, Dann,” Finn said as Rowan flowed past them, lightfooted, graceful and very fast, totally focussed on the axe as it flew from hand to hand, “He’s just as good with that axe as he is with the damned sabre…”
Dann gave his father an odd look.
“And you’re surprised by that? He’s a forester, isn’t he?”
“Aye, so he is. But no, I’m not surprised, Dann, I’m… I’m simply astounded. I thought Rhys was amazing, and he was, too, but… Beldar’s bloody breeks! Rowan just makes it look so damned easy, and I’m fraggin sure that it’s not…”
“Just as well he’ll only ever be using that axe on poor innocent trees and logs and things, Pa.”
“Aye, it truly is, lad.”
**********
At the end of the drill, Rowan turned a couple of handsprings for the sheer joy of it, then laughed at himself and strode over to the dwarves again.
“’Tis perfect, truly. Thank you,” he said.
“I’m glad you’re so pleased with it, laddie,” Finn said. He turned to Owen for a moment as the younger dwarf finally managed to get his attention. “Oh, dammit! We nearly forgot these… good thing young Owen remembered this first one, I’d hate to think the axe cut your braid off…”
Rowan nodded as Owen handed him a finely tooled leather covering that’d shield the blade when it wasn’t being used and, more importantly, when Rowan was carrying it on his back. Of course it wouldn’t be a hindrance if Rowan needed to use the axe urgently for some reason: the blade would simply cut through it with no effort at all. But his eyes widened as Finn handed him the small hand axe that’d almost slipped the dwarves’ minds.
“What’s this, Finn?” he said doubtfully.
“’Tis an axe, laddie. Well, a hand axe or belt axe, to be truthful.”
“But…?” Rowan looked down at the lovely thing in his hand, a perfect replica of the full-sized one he’d just been dancing with. That one was presently leaning comfortably against his left knee.
“Well, we thought you might find it useful around the farm, with the fencing and so forth,” Dann said, delighted at the stunned expression on Rowan’s face, “Very handy things, hand axes are… er, no pun intended, mind.”
“I… I don’t know what to say to you. It’s… it’s wonderful. But you’ve given me my axe, and…”
Finn put a hand on his arm.
“Hush. Hush now, laddie. The clan wanted us to make that one for you as well, and so we did,” he said gently, “’Tisn’t every day we find ourselves dealing with a Triple Champion, and we wanted to… to mark it with just a bit extra.”
Rowan pulled himself together.
“Then thank you all,” he said softly, “I’m honoured and humbled by your thoughtfulness and the gift of this little axe. You’re right, they are useful things, and… and I know that this one will see plenty of use.”
“Good lad. ‘Tis what it’s for, after all,” Dann said happily.
None of the g’Hakken liked to see their fine weapons merely put up on a wall as a trophy and never used, though it was surprising how many Champions over the years had done just that, as if the superb blades would somehow break if used. Rowan’s sabre had seen far more use than most, and it still looked as if it’d just been forged, and it always would.
Rowan had a sudden thought though.
“But I can’t go to the Moot with two axes as well as my sabre and knives. They’ll think I’m going to murder the whole bloody lot of them.”
“Ha! ‘Tis a tempting thought with some of the old buggers, Rowan lad. But don’t fret, they’ll be wanting to see the Champion’s Axes, both of them, as well as the sabre and knives,” Finn said.
“And ‘tisn’t as if you’ll be the only one there with an axe or two and a couple of knives, Rowan,” Owen said with a laugh.
“Er, no, I suppose not,” Rowan replied softly.
**********
The dwarves were ready to leave for the Moot a couple of days after Rowan received his Champion’s Axe – or Axes, really. There’d be about a hundred and fifty or so going, including Rowan, of course. Some would travel in wagons, which would be used for sleeping as well as carrying their supplies, but most would be riding their ponies.
Rowan was a bit surprised to hear that Toren wouldn’t be going this time, but as he said, he’d just got back from a successful trip to Frissender and he was happy to simply stay at home and mind his animals now.
“Ha! Especially those cows, eh? I’ve heard that you’ve fallen in love with them, lad,” Dann teased him as he helped to clear droppings from one of the paddocks. He was delighted to see his kinsman blush scarlet.
“Shh! Not so loud, Pa,” Owen chimed in, always ready for a good joke to relieve the tedium of the job in hand, “Poor Talia will be getting worried!”
“Pull your head in, young Owen! And you too, Dann, you bloo
dy ratbag! Talia knows she’s got nothing to worry about. We’ve been wed for nigh on forty damned years, after all,” Toren protested with a laugh, “And she certainly has no reason to be jealous of the cows, pretty little flirts though they are.”
Dann and Owen exchanged a knowing look.
“I’d not be saying that too loudly either, Toren, forty years or no,” Dann said, then ducked hastily as Toren threw a dried cowpat at him.
“You needed to aim a bit lower,” Owen said helpfully, then cursed as Toren did exactly that with a second pat that shattered against the top of his shoulder. “Bugger me! Lucky that wasn’t in my poor beard,” he added, scampering quickly out of range.
“I didn’t know you grew your beard out of your ears, laddie,” Toren laughed and threw another, ducking quickly behind a handy bush as Dann and Owen returned fire. Really, these dried cowpats make wonderful missiles, he thought, just as good as pony doings and not so friable. Goat or sheep shrapnel could be effective too, but it wasn’t a long-range weapon. Of course Talia likely wouldn’t agree with his choice of ammunition and he’d best hope that no youngsters saw this little battle, or he wouldn’t hear the end of it.
From the top of a hill, Finn and Rowan watched the others ducking and weaving and laughed as the improvised weapons flew.
“Bloody daft buggers,” Finn said, shaking his head at their antics.
“Aye, they truly are. It does look like fun though,” Rowan replied.
“Aye, it does, but I doubt the womenfolk will be pleased with them.”
“No, likely not.”
**********
33. “…‘tis certainly not a damned shortcut”
The g’Hakken travelled southwards, leaving Wirran after ten days or so to cross a narrow bit of Crell, then enter the eastern end of Candellar. They’d cut across here and then into Gian, with the whole trek taking the best part of a month, as they tried to avoid the most difficult parts of the terrain, particularly the very dangerous Blackwater Swamp, and the Devil’s Teeth, a mountain range with a reputation second only to the Sleeping Dogs.