by Helen Gosney
A familiar face hove into view among the good-sized crowd of spectators: Owen, and he seemed to be in a bit of a hurry. He was carrying a few pieces of rope and looking around anxiously.
“Where the bloody hells is he? He said he’d be over here,” Owen muttered as he looked around, “How the hell can I not see the bugger?” He turned to another dwarf. “Harri, have you seen the Champion anywhere?”
Harri stared at him in surprise. Yes, there were quite a lot of folk milling about and watching the races, but still…
“Open your eyes, you daft bugger! You’ll bloody fall over him if you’re not careful,” he said with a grin, and pointed to the paperbark.
Sure enough, Rowan was still sitting there, trying hard not to laugh at Owen’s plight. It wasn’t as if he was trying to hide from him, after all. If he had been, the dwarf certainly wouldn’t have found him so easily, with all these lovely leafy trees to climb into.
Owen stalked up to him, his quick temper aroused.
“How the hell do you bloody do that, Rowan?” he said grumpily.
“Do what, lad?”
“Just… just fraggin appear like that. I’m damned if I could see you there.”
Rowan shrugged.
“I didn’t just appear, Owen. I was sitting here quietly all the time. Well, except when I was cheering on the youngsters, of course. But with everyone else milling about, you simply didn’t see me, I suppose,” he said, “’Tis how the hunters at home taught me to be still and quiet in the trees. They’d box my ears if I crashed about, and I suppose it’s just become a habit.”
Owen looked at him in amazement. Yes, his forester’s leathers blended in fairly well with the bark of the tree, and even his silver hair seemed inconspicuous, dappled with sunlight and shade as it was; sitting down his height wasn’t a factor as it usually was, but it was his stillness that’d hidden him in plain sight, just as he’d said.
Rowan smiled at his friend’s confusion.
“Were you looking for me for something, Owen lad? Or were you planning on tying me up with those bits of rope? Surely I’ve not been that naughty, have I?” he said.
“Ha! No, not yet. Well, not that I’ve heard about, anyway,” Owen said, as his usual good nature reasserted itself, “No, I was looking for you to go in the three-legged race with me…”
Now it was Rowan’s turn to look surprised.
“The what? The three-legged race? But surely that’s only for the youngsters, isn’t it?”
“No, no. They run a few races like that for us old buggers, to give everyone a bit of a laugh. Even Pa and Grandpa were talking about going in some. The three-legged race starts in… Gods! Less than ten minutes!”
“Well, I expect it’s the same as the Siannen version… we tie your left leg and my right leg together and then run like hell and try not to break our silly necks?” Rowan smiled at Owen’s cheerful nod. “But, Owen lad, I… er… well, I’m a bit taller than you and my legs are longer than yours, with no offence intended. Do you truly think it’d work?”
Owen laughed happily. Rowan was almost a foot and a half taller than he was, and long-legged with it.
“Dunno, laddie,” he said, “But I thought it’d be fun to give it a try! What do you think?”
Rowan shrugged, but his eyes sparkled with mischief.
“I’m game if you are. Glyn and I used to do this when we were lads and we were champions at it even though he was a lot taller than me. Will we have time to practice a bit, though?”
“Aye, we will if we get on with it!”
“So, what are we waiting for?”
**********
They tied their legs together in the time-honoured way, but found they needed another piece of rope above Rowan’s knee and around Owen’s thigh. Well, that wasn’t a problem. Owen had brought a good supply with him.
They fell over a few times as they tried to co-ordinate their strides, to the merriment of some onlookers, but finally they worked it out and off they went to the Games Marshall, Barnet of the g’Reyn clan. The rather portly dwarf stared at the very odd combination that was presenting itself for the race, and tried not to laugh. He was spectacularly unsuccessful.
“Shut up, you bloody fool! We’re here to compete in your damned race,” Owen said, trying to sound stern. It wasn’t easy with Rowan chuckling beside him.
“My apologies,” Barnet managed as he wiped his eyes, “I truly meant no offence to you or your clan, but…er…” he had to look away as he started to laugh again.
“… but we look a bit… um… odd. Bloody stupid, even,” Rowan said with a grin, “Mind you, we’re not bad at this when we get going, we might just surprise you!”
Barnet was already surprised that they’d got as far as they had, and he thought he’d be even more surprised if they got to the starting line without doing themselves a mischief. Of course he wasn’t about to say so; besides, the race was meant to be fun and open to all comers.
“Ha! We’ll run everyone off their bloody feet, Rowan lad!” Owen said and turned to the Marshall, “So, Barnet, will you let us go in the fraggin race or not?”
“Of course I’ll let you go in it, you daft buggers. You’re both dwarves, aren’t you? Besides, I want to see how you manage it,” Barnet said happily, “And I’m fairly sure I’m not the only one. There’d be bloody hell to pay if I banned you!”
Rowan and Owen looked around and were surprised to see the big crowd of hangers-on they’d accumulated, with more hurrying up all the time.
“Bugger me, Owen. We’d better not let all these folk down,” Rowan said.
“Don’t fret yourself, lad. We’ll win this by a country mile.”
**********
They probably would have too, if they hadn’t started laughing. They were leading by a handy margin when they made the mistake of looking at each other. They quickly lost their rhythm and their way, and fell, bringing down nearly half the field with them in a most instructive - but unintended - demonstration of the domino effect.
Every time they tried to get up, somebody else cannoned into them or fell over them and eventually most of the contestants were rolling around on the grass, laughing uncontrollably.
The rank outsiders of the field, Finn and Dann, somehow managed to navigate their way past the hilarious melee to win by a huge margin. In fact, they were the only ones who actually finished.
“Bloody Hells!” Owen said sadly at the presentation of the trophy, a carved wooden three-legged dwarf, “We’ll never hear the fraggin end of this!”
**********
They redeemed themselves in the wheelbarrow race, though. This wasn’t the sort of race that involved an actual wheelbarrow, of course: no, one dwarf walked on his – or her – hands as the barrow, and the second one took their partner’s feet and was responsible for steering.
When Rowan took his place to start level with the others, Owen, holding his feet as the wheeler, was a good way behind the others, to everyone’s mirth and sudden consternation. The rules stated that both ‘barrow’ and ‘wheeler’ had to cross the finishing line to win. The trouble was that Rowan’s height – or length, as he was the barrow – disadvantaged him and Owen with this ruling.
There was some discussion that the rules might have to be changed a bit: Rowan and Owen weren’t concerned by the handicap, though, and so it was decided that the rules would stand.
Rowan was good at gymnastics, still doing some every day as part of his exercise regime, and Owen was very strong from his work as a smith. They had a good lead when another attack of the laughs threatened to derail them again.
But no. They sternly pulled themselves together, ignoring the cheerful catcalls and less than helpful advice from the onlookers. Owen picked up Rowan’s feet that he’d dropped when hilarity had overtaken him, and Rowan walked on his hands so quickly that the dwarf had to run hard to keep up with his ‘wheelbarrow’. They won handily, to the cheers of the spectators, and cheerfully accepted the prize of a little carved
wheelbarrow with hands in place of a wheel and handles shaped like bare feet.
Nobody’d expected the Champion to take part in the sillier competitions, but the dwarves were pleased that he didn’t consider himself to be above that sort of thing; pleased to find – as the g’Hakken had always said – that he was just a very tall dwarf at heart… a very tall, very fast, and very agile dwarf who wasn’t afraid to laugh at himself.
**********
54. “Killing folk isn’t all it’s cracked up to be”
Inevitably, the day the g’Hakken had been dreading came around.
“Well, Rowan lad, are you ready?” Dann asked at breakfast.
Rowan looked up from his plate of bacon and eggs and nodded.
“Aye, probably. Er… ready for what, exactly?”
“’Tis Meeting Day today.”
“Dammit,” Rowan said, then added a few other words that expressed his feelings better, using his more obscure repertoire so as not to offend any of the clan ladies.
He’d almost been able to forget about this, one way and another, but here it was at last: the Dwarf Moot All-clan Meeting, usually known simply as the Moot Meet, the time when business that involved all of the clans was discussed, problems were raised and disputes were settled. This was the day that Finn would present the Charter from g’Beyans’ Bridge, explain to the assembled clans just what had happened there and why, and hope like hell that the inevitable pandemonium could be managed. He’d already spoken to the clan chieftains and somehow managed to calm them down, but the huge number of assembled dwarves would be another matter.
**********
The Meeting would be held in one of the vast tents that’d reminded Rowan of circus tents the first time he’d seen them. They were used for plays and dances and general entertainment, and demonstrations and displays and competitions of various kinds, like knife and axe throwing if the weather was too windy. Rowan had even judged a pony show inside one on a day when it was pouring with rain, but he’d made himself scarce when a judge was needed for a baby show in the other tent.
This one was scrupulously clean and neat as the dwarves trooped in and made themselves comfortable, with the clan chieftains seated on a dais at one end. There were a couple of hours of discussion about such things as the deaths of various clan headmen and other notable dwarves since the last Moot, with a respectful minute’s silence for each of them. Then there were general good wishes for the weddings that’d take place before the next gathering after successful inter-clan negotiations here. Most dwarves didn’t believe in arranged marriages, but even with the most ardent of young lovers there were always certain practicalities to be sorted out.
Somebody spoke up about the outrageous price one of the clans was demanding for iron ore, sparking a heated debate that was finally settled to everyone’s satisfaction. A miracle in itself, Rowan thought, and a tribute to the wisdom and patience of the clan chieftains and elders. Some of the clans could be very feisty indeed. Someone else made a longwinded, if well-intentioned, speech about how well the Moot was going and proposed that congratulations should go to the organisers. Everyone dutifully clapped and the speaker sat down again, pleased.
And then it came…
“When the hell are we going to hear about this mysterious business with the g’Hakken that only the headmen and elders know about?” a voice shouted from somewhere in the middle of the big crowd.
All eyes turned to a young dwarf of the g’Ballen mining clan, Feore. He was a well-known hothead and general pest among a clan of hotheads.
“Show some bloody manners, lad!” an older dwarf beside him hissed.
“Oh, my apologies,” Feore said insincerely, “But when are we going to…”
“When the g’Hakken and the chieftains are good and ready to tell us. Now shut up!”
Of course everyone there had heard the exchange, and there were muffled comments of, “Gods, that lad’s a bloody loudmouth”, and “He needs to learn some fraggin respect. I’d thump him in the ear if he was my lad”; there were also a few mumbles of “Aye, I’d like to hear about that as well”.
Finn stood from his seat among the clan headmen and cleared his throat.
“I’ll tell you now, if there’s no other business. There’s no damned secret to it really, but I think you’ll all understand why we’ve not spoken openly about it when you hear the whole story…”
**********
News of a Charter with Gabonsbridge was greeted with cheers and applause from those clans who knew of the situation there. Not many were actually affected by it, as the town was fairly isolated, but even so it’d rankled to be forced to make travel arrangements other than what was really desired and needed. Finn made a quick explanation to those who hadn’t heard of the town or the problems there. After some outraged shouting and swearing, those dwarves quietened down as they recalled the Charter in Finn’s hand: the Charter that now guaranteed them all free access to both town and bridge forever, on the odd chance they might decide to visit.
Therellen stood up and clapped Finn on the back.
“Well, Finn, old friend, you’ve done a bloody good job there,” he said, then turning to the assembled clans, “Three cheers for Findarel, Rowan d’Rhys and the g’Hakken!”
As the cheers rang out, Finn, Dann and Rowan exchanged glances. It was time. Finn held up his hands and silence fell.
“Thank you, my friends, thank you on behalf of all the clan. I’m glad that we were able to resolve that problem, it’d gone on for far too bloody long,” he said slowly, “But there’s more that you must know about. Please, try to rein in your tempers and let me finish what I must say. And remember, too, that the situation is no longer as it was, and the townsfolk themselves were ignorant of what I’m about to say…”
“And so are we, still! Just bloody get on with it!” Feore said loudly, then yelped as somebody did indeed give him a good clout around the ears that almost brought him to his knees.
“Well done, Tomal,” somebody said happily, then more forcefully to Feore, “Now bloody shut up, lad, and let us all hear what Findarel has to say. You shame your clan with such disrespect! Any more of it and you’ll be thrown out!”
Red-faced and red-eared, Feore finally shut up.
“As I was saying,” Finn continued smoothly, “Please remember that the townsfolk had no idea at all of what I’m about to say…” he took a deep breath, “My friends, the town that some of us know as Gabonsbridge is in truth g’Beyans’ Bridge…”
There was puzzled silence as Finn said his piece, but it quickly gave way to uproar as the full import of his words became clear.
“Please! Please stop and think about what you’re saying!” Finn shouted, but his words were lost in the general pandemonium of weapons being drawn and cries for an immediate march on the town to teach those inside a lesson they’d never forget. He looked around frantically for Rowan.
**********
A piercing whistle stopped the uproar immediately.
Rowan stood up, straight and tall and powerful, his usually cheerful face pale and grave.
“Thank you. Now please, please stop and think about this,” he said, his voice soft and oddly compelling, “What will you achieve by going back to g’Beyans’ Bridge in arms now? Do you truly want to start a bloody war with men?”
“They’re the ones who started this!”
“And we’re the ones who’ll finish it!”
Rowan wasn’t sure who’d spoken, but it didn’t matter. Everyone here was ready for slaughter.
“Listen to yourselves!” he said, “You sound like children squabbling in a fraggin playground!”
“Do you expect us to just do nothing? Why the hell should they get away with something like that, the bastards?”
Rowan looked down at the dwarf who’d spoken, and was unsurprised to see that it was Feore.
“Let me tell you why you shouldn’t go raging back to g’Beyans’ Bridge, lad. Aye, they deserve a hell of a kick in the
backside, but they’ve already had that. They don’t deserve to die for their damned ignorance!” he said, hoping to get through to not only this young troublemaker, but to all the dwarves there. “Killing folk isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, let me tell you. ‘Tisn’t honourable or fraggin glorious. ‘Tis gory, messy, smelly and bloody horrible. ‘Tis even worse if your friend or clansman is cut in half right beside you.”
There was a shocked intake of breath. Dwarves prided themselves on plain speaking, but they could learn a hell of a lot about the art from a forester and they were just about to.
“My friends, killing folk is easy in a lot of ways, and I can tell you that with absolute certainty because I’ve done a hell of a lot of it in my time, as you all know. Certainly, ‘tis easy in the heat of the moment, assuming you’re reasonably competent at it and you don’t keep slipping over in great pools of blood or falling over big piles of bodies and bits and pieces. It also helps if you don’t see your brother or best friend killed right beside you, as I said, and it helps even more if you don’t see and hear somebody’s wife and little child screaming as a blade cuts them down… because you will see and hear that, fighting in a town…” Rowan hadn’t seen the last thing, and he was eternally grateful for it, but the sights of Trill had been more than enough. He’d certainly heard far more screaming than he’d ever wanted to. He tried to suppress a shudder, failed, and kept on. At least the dwarves seemed to be listening… well, staring at him in horror, really; the closest ones must have seen his shudder, but he hoped they might be listening as well.
“Even fighting out in the field isn’t all about being lined up in neat ranks and swinging a blade at some poor bugger. No, he’ll have a nice sharp blade too, and he’ll be trying like hell to kill you before you can kill him. He might miss you if you’re lucky and kill the poor bastard right beside you, the one your sister is betrothed to. Or he might take your arm off about… here…” he indicated a spot a few inches below his shoulder, “He might take your head off while he’s about it.”