by Helen Gosney
He looked around a bit more and saw a big, flourishing garden. Apparently, when the Moot site had been chosen, some enterprising dwarves had planted a good sized plot, tended it, and now they supplied fresh fruit and vegetables to all the dwarves in attendance. And good luck to them, Rowan thought. Such forethought and hard work deserved a reward.
The g’Hakken were shown to a nice site near some big, sturdy oaks, and several dwarves who were standing about waiting to greet them commented that they’d thought the clan would’ve been there before this, as they usually were.
“Aye, well, we… er… we were held up a bit on the way, but we’ll tell you about it later,” Finn said, “When we’re at the business end of things. ‘Tisn’t long now.”
“And then we’ll try to calm the buggers down before they all head off and tear g’Beyans’ Bridge down stone by bloody stone,” he muttered as the others nodded and went off about their own business.
“Do you truly think they’ll be so worked up about it now we’ve got the Charter to wave under their noses, Finn?” Rowan said, a bit surprised.
“Gods! I bloody hope not. At least the Charter will help to calm them down a bit, and I’m hoping you might be able to talk some sense into their damned thick heads, laddie.”
Rowan stared at him in astonishment.
“Me? Why the hell would you think they’d listen to me?”
“Because you’re the Champion, Rowan. And… and because you can… I’m so sorry to say this to you lad, but you can tell them what it’s truly like to be in a bloody battle, trying your damnedest to kill folk before they kill you…”
Finn hated himself as he saw the familiar bleakness in Rowan’s eyes and his sudden pallor as he looked away. He was about to apologise and change the subject when Rowan shook his head as if to clear it, then pulled himself together.
“Aye, Finn,” he said slowly, “I can tell them that all right, if you truly think it’ll stop them doing something bloody stupid. But whether they listen to me or not might be another matter.”
“I think they will, Rowan lad. I hope they bloody will.”
Rowan did his best to put that prospect out of his mind over the next few days.
**********
The dwarves were very keen to see Rowan’s sabre, axes and knives, just as Finn had said, and they had themselves well organised to do it. They’d set aside a good-sized tent with open sides and several tables to display the weapons, and they lined up and filed through in an orderly fashion, carefully examining the weapons one by one. Naturally, Finn, Dann and Owen were there with Rowan to discuss the finer points of the items and their forging. There was no fuss and no rush and it would take several days for everyone to have their fill of it.
“Are you sure you don’t mind us handling them like this, laddie?” Dass of the g’Delsren asked as he hefted the axe on the first day of the exercise, smiling happily as he felt the perfection of it.
Rowan smiled and shook his head.
“Of course not. Just be careful not to cut yourselves on anything, though.”
“Ha! We’ll all be very fraggin careful, Rowan. You could likely shave with anything here,” Dass said, eying the wickedly sharp edge of the gleaming axe.
“Aye, you can. The sabre is a bit big and unwieldy to shave with, really, but I’ve done it… a few years ago now, mind, when I was young and silly. And the knives are better than any razor I’ve ever used,” Rowan said, “To be truthful, I’ve not tried the axe or the hand axe, but I’m sure they’d do the job just as well.”
“And they’re so beautiful. Just look at that engraving,” a flaxen-haired woman said, looking at the axe in Dass’ hands very closely indeed, “I couldn’t do better myself.”
Finn smiled at Rowan’s puzzled face.
“Sharra is of the g’Lyggen clan, Rowan. Most of that clan are jewellers of one sort or another, and Sharra is a gold and silver smith. She makes the loveliest things you’ll ever see.”
“Finn! You old flatterer!” Sharra laughed, “But come by the clan stall in the market place, Rowan, and judge for yourself.”
“Aye, I will, when we finally finish here. I’d like to buy something nice for Gran and Rose and Honi.”
“If you don’t see just what you want, I can make something up for you if you tell me what you’ve got in mind.”
“Thank you, Sharra. I’ll be sure to visit the stall when I can.”
She smiled at him, then looked more closely at his left hand, puzzled.
“Rowan, would you… would you be offended if I asked to see your ring? It’s very beautiful,” she said.
He glanced down at the silver and gold ring that he’d worn for so long: Zara’s ring. He slipped it off and handed it to her.
“Oh… it’s g’Hakken work, isn’t it? But who…? It’s lovely, Rowan, truly lovely. I’ve not seen anything quite like it,” she said as she inspected the ring very closely indeed. The g’Hakken made little jewellery, and it wasn’t usually a delicate-seeming interweaving of twigs and leaves as this was.
“Aye, ‘tis lovely. ‘Twas a wedding gift from the clan, one of a pair…” he paused for a moment and continued softly, “But my wife died. It was a long time ago, now, but it still seems like yesterday sometimes. She wears my ring now, and I wear hers. ‘Tis the forester custom.”
“Rowan, I’m so sorry… I, I shouldn’t have spoken of it…”
He managed a smile.
“No, Sharra, don’t apologise. We loved our rings and I know Zara would be pleased that you like this one of hers,” he said.
**********
Finally the line seemed to be coming to an end. Rowan knew that there’d be other lines on other days, and it seemed to him to be a good way for as many dwarves as possible to see the famous g’Hakken weapons. They were widely acknowledged to be simply the best available anywhere.
Therellen, the headman of the g’Hyr clan, was the last. He examined the weapons carefully, almost reverently, and he took his time about it. Finally he smiled at Finn, Dann and Owen and said softly, “Bugger me, lads, you’ve excelled yourselves with these. I’ve never seen weapons so fine.”
This was high praise indeed, as Therellen was a Master Smith and weapons maker himself and he truly knew what he was talking about; knew too that his own excellent efforts couldn’t compare to the g’Hakken weapons he’d seen today.
Finn bowed his head and replied, “Thank you, Therellen. We think they’re probably the best we’ve ever made too.”
They discussed technicalities for a while, and finally Therellen turned back to Rowan.
“Now, Rowan, Finn says that you dance with the sabre and the axe. Not together, of course,” the dwarf beamed at him, “Do you… er… do you think you’d be able to show some of us what the hell he means by that?”
Rowan had been forewarned of this and so he wasn’t as surprised as he’d otherwise have been. It never ceased to amaze him the attraction that watching a simple sword or axe drill had for others, but he’d kept up the practice since the Trophy so as not to disgrace the clan.
“Aye, I can show you now, if you like. I’ll just have to warm up a bit after standing about in here, so I’ll be a few minutes and then I’ll be ready. Where do you want me to do it?”
“How about we lay out a nice big circle over there with a bit of rope?”
“Aye, that’ll do. Perhaps you could put a double line of rope a few feet apart, so folk stay well back.”
Therellen nodded.
“Aye, a good idea. You warm yourself up, lad, and it’ll be ready when you are.”
**********
The word that Rowan would demonstrate his sabre and axe now had already spread as he took off his shirt and began his very unorthodox warmup. A surprising number of dwarves had appeared from nowhere and more were hurrying up. He ignored the appalled gasps at his scars as he well-used to that, and he smiled as he heard some of the younger dwarves laughing and wondering if he might teach them how to turn the handsprings a
nd somersaults that he did so easily.
And then he began his sword drill. The watching dwarves quickly realised that any drill performed by a Weapons Master was no ‘simple drill’ at all, and they stared in silent amazement as Rowan flowed effortlessly around the improvised circle, totally focussed on what he was doing as the g’Hakken sabre flashed from hand to hand.
“Great bloody Beldar! I’d never have believed a big tall lad like Rowan could move like that,” Therellen said softly as he watched intently.
Finn, standing beside him, laughed.
“He’s certainly not a damned great bumblefooted lumberer, is he? Mind you, most of his kin seem to move well, and most of them are even bigger than him. His Pa’s folk reckon he’s small.”
“Small? Bugger me,” Therellen said, staring at Finn in amazement for a moment before hastily turning back to the circle in case he missed something, “He’s so damned fast! And how is it he can use both hands like that? Either hand, I mean.”
“No idea. It seems that all foresters can do it without thinking about it. It’d be bloody handy, wouldn’t it?”
“Aye, especially if you hurt your hand or broke your arm or something,” Therellen frowned though, “Gods, the poor lad’s got some fraggin nasty scars, Finn. Messton?”
“Aye. He doesn’t like to talk about it much.”
“Mmm… I’m not surprised. I can’t imagine a fight that leaves you with scars like that…”
And they’re not the worst ones he bears, Finn thought sadly. Yes, Rowan’s time back at Den Siddon had helped him, but his old memories still haunted him at times and likely always would. It didn’t seem right, Finn thought, as others had before him.
**********
Rowan finished his routine with the sabre and came back to Owen as the spectators cheered enthusiastically. He bowed to them, swallowed a single sip of water, swapped the sabre for the axe, and repeated the dance. Of course the sabre and axe drills were fundamentally different, and the dwarves were silent as they realised Rowan’s sheer expertise with the heavier weapon. They’d expected it with the sabre, but not the axe… not like this.
Rowan finished the second routine, surprised at the rapt silence, then surprised again as the loud cheers and applause broke out.
“Thank you,” he said, “But surely you all know how to use an axe as well as I do?”
Dass stepped forward, laughing.
“Well, we may all KNOW it as well as you do, and aye, we can all use an axe too, but we surely can’t use one like you do, laddie,” he became serious suddenly. “Mind you, I wouldn’t mind a bit of a try…”
Rowan smiled at his rather wistful expression.
“You’d like to spar with me, Dass? Anytime. But I… with all respect to you, I don’t want anyone to get hurt. We’d have to start off slowly…”
Dass grinned at him.
“Rowan lad, I couldn’t move as fast as you if my damned life depended on it. Going slowly won’t be a problem.”
**********
52. “I can throw them all right”
There were quite a lot of competitions at the Moot: pony races, running races for youngsters and adults and of course there were other things that were dear to any dwarf’s heart, like knife throwing and axe throwing. Rowan liked to watch as many as possible, and he was perfectly happy to simply be a spectator, but inevitably some of the dwarves wanted him to join the knife throwing. He smiled, but shook his head.
“But why not? Surely you can throw those beautiful knives of yours, can’t you?”
“Aye, I can throw them all right, but…”
“Ha! I’m thinking you can’t throw the damned things at all!” a young fellow of the g’Tayven clan piped up, “Perhaps you’re truly bloody hopeless and you’re afraid that we’ll show you up!”
Rowan was pleased to see that the dwarves were treating him as one of themselves, and he reacted in kind.
He arched an eyebrow at the young fellow, shrugged and stood up, and suddenly he had a g’Hakken dagger in each hand. A moment later, the left-hand one thudded into the centre of the target; another heartbeat and the second one quivered beside it, so close that it was almost touching. Rowan walked down to retrieve them without a word, but he could clearly hear the hushed words behind him. Obviously these dwarves were unaware that a forester’s hearing was just as acute as their own.
“Bugger me!”
“How the hell did he…? I can’t believe anyone’s so damned fast…”
“Ha! That’ll teach you to open that damned big mouth of yours, Damen lad!”
“Anyone could throw well with bloody knives like that in their hands,” Damen said, but he seemed uncertain about it. The realisation that Rowan had used both hands simply hadn’t sunk in yet. It would, though.
“Aye, they could, but Rowan could do that with your Granny’s old paring knife and a butter knife,” a voice that Rowan recognised as Owen’s said softly, “You wouldn’t put one of the blades you make yourself beside one of my Pa’s or Grandpa’s and say they were the same, would you?”
Damen shook his head, shocked at the thought. He was quite a good smith, but he certainly wasn’t a Master Smith, and he most definitely wasn’t a g’Hakken Master Smith. Owen’s suggestion was almost blasphemous.
“Well, lad, do you see that tattoo on Rowan’s arm? The right one, you fraggin idiot! Now, you won’t see one of those every day, but ‘tis the Weapons Master tattoo. Does that perhaps tell you anything?”
“Bloody Hells… a Weapons Master? Truly?”
“Aye, truly. Now, Rowan doesn’t like to make a big thing of it, but ‘tis the reason he won’t compete against us. He might join in for his own amusement if we’re lucky, but not as a competitor.”
“I’ll… I’ll ask him, if you think he won’t be offended,” Damen said.
“He’s damned nearly impossible to offend, lad. He’ll be pleased to be asked,” Owen replied.
When Rowan came back, carefully keeping a straight face, Damen spoke up.
“I’m sorry, Rowan. I… I didn’t realise, but would you join us anyway? Just for… er… practice?” he blushed as several of his friends poked at him and laughed at his clumsiness.
Rowan smiled at him.
“Aye, thanks laddie, I will join you. A bit of extra practice never goes astray, does it?” he said, “But I’ll use my Forest Giant clan knife, if that’s all right with you. ‘Twas made by Master Smith Jeldaron of the g’Farrien in Sian.”
The dwarves looked at the bone handled hunting knife with interest. Rowan had had it since his twelfth birthday, the day he’d become a man in the eyes of his forester clan. It’d clearly been well used, but it was still bright and gleaming and very, very sharp.
“All the best knives are made by us dwarves,” somebody remarked proudly.
“Aye, they are,” Rowan agreed, and put this one into the centre of another target with no apparent trouble at all.
He did the same with his new g’Hakken hand axe, though he hadn’t actually tried throwing it before. Still, it was simply a matter of balancing it… thus… and throwing it, as far as he was concerned.
The competition quickly became an impromptu teaching session as the dwarves – even the judges - asked Rowan for pointers, and to show them how they might improve their own techniques. They all tried the g’Hakken daggers, to their amazement and joy. Some found that their throwing was indeed improved, but a couple found themselves so overawed by actually being allowed to use the famous knives that they could scarcely throw at all.
“’Tis a piece of steel, laddie, that’s all. Just like your own knife is,” Rowan said quietly to one dwarf whose hands were shaking as he held the dagger. He knew that Owen wouldn’t be offended by his remark, but he hoped that Finn and Dann weren’t anywhere nearby to overhear him. Mind you, they’d know that he meant no disrespect. “Just hold it like this and balance it properly, … now take a deep breath… exhale slowly… and throw it. Good lad. See? ‘Tisn’t so damned hard
, is it? Here, now try the other one…”
**********
There was no official winner of that particular competition, but the judges decided the dwarves should share the prize money, and they all headed off to the nearest ale tent. Rowan went with them, of course, and quietly nursed the same mug of ale for over an hour. The other clans were generally comfortable with Rowan now, and simply treated him just as the g’Hakken did: that’s to say, as one of themselves.
An older dwarf came over to him, obviously curious.
“You don’t drink much, do you?” he said.
Rowan smiled and shook his head.
“Not ale, no. A good cup of tea, now, is a different matter.”
“Tea? Bloody tea?” the dwarf looked personally affronted for a moment, “But what sort of a damned dwarf are you if you don’t drink good dwarven ale?”
“I’m the sort of dwarf who doesn’t drink himself so daft that his poor friends have to carry him home when he gets thrown out of the tavern,” Rowan paused thoughtfully, “In fact, I’m the sort of dwarf that ends up doing the bloody carrying, more often than not.”
“Ah… well, ‘tis an important job too, I suppose,” the dwarf said seriously, “I’ve certainly been damned grateful to that sort of dwarf a few times.”
“Ha! More than a bloody few, Nallet!” somebody piped up.
And the talk moved to other things.
**********
53. “just a very tall dwarf at heart”
Rowan liked to watch the athletic contests, and he liked to support the youngsters of the clans in their endeavours. A couple of days after the knife throwing he was sitting comfortably under a nice shady paperbark, watching them run around. He cheered a young g’Hakken girl as she won her race easily and he cheered another who came a brave third after missing the start slightly. He and everyone else then cheered on two little lads of the g’Tull. One had taken a heavy fall, and his friend had stopped, helped him up, and stayed with him as he limped doggedly to the finish line. Of course they were last by a long way, but that wasn’t important. The big smiles on their little faces as the crowd applauded and cheered them home had warmed everyone’s hearts.