by Helen Gosney
“Your friend yesterday... Rowan, was it? He was a fascinating young fellow, wasn’t he? A real enigma,” said Hess unexpectedly.
“An enigma? Was he? He seemed straightforward enough to me. He certainly says what he thinks, but I like him.” Cris was puzzled as to why the priest would think such an open, honest-seeming man as Rowan was so mysterious.
“Ah, Cris, you could trust that man with your life. Those Siannen foresters are all like that; they’re the most honest and honourable folk in the world, so they say. I was stationed in Bettra for a while… that’s the province to the north of Sian… and I never heard a bad word about them. Stubborn as rocks of course, but wonderful folk. It’s just that they’re not usually Guardsmen too…” Tadeus said, “Did he happen to mention where he was garrisoned?”
“Yes, he was from, er…” Cris racked his brains, amazed that his old friend had actually heard of Sian. Suddenly he realised that maybe he had too: his own father had often used the expression “As stubborn as a Shannon forester” and he, Cris, had simply accepted it along with everything else his Da had said. “…Ten… no, Den Sidd, I think he said… in, um, in Wirran, wherever that is…but how did you…?”
“I was a soldier myself before I heard the call of the One,” Tadeus smiled at his own pomposity, “You can’t mistake the way he carries himself. But… Den Sidd, you said? In Wirran?” Tadeus frowned thoughtfully and then suddenly stared in amazement. “Great bloody Lord above… Den Siddon, Cris … Den bloody Siddon.” He said something else that Cris didn’t understand, though it somehow suggested gross blasphemy and Cris was irresistibly reminded that the priest had indeed been a trooper. Tadeus shook his head in wonder as he continued, “How could I not have realised from the damned knives? And of course the man’s Siannen too. A forester. Bugger me, this lad must be Red Rowan… You know, I thought there was something about him. But I think he carries more scars… worse scars than those you might see.”
“‘Red’ Rowan? What do you mean?” Cris wondered what his old friend was talking about.
“Well, he was called ‘Red’ from his earliest days as a recruit, because of his hair of course. And as he rose through the ranks, the name stuck, even when he was Captain of the biggest garrison in Wirran. His men idolised him, he was a brilliant warrior, the only man to have ever won the Champions’ Trophy twice, and among themselves, they still called him ‘Red’”.
He looked at Cris for a moment. The little ratcatcher was sitting there staring at him in astonishment.
“You don’t know what the Champions’ Trophy is, do you?”
“Er, no. No-one from Gnash has ever won it, have they?” Cris asked innocently.
Tadeus snorted.
“No! Nor ever likely to. It’s a Tournament for… well, the best of the best. The champion swordsmen from each province contest for it once every ten years. And it’s not just for Guardsmen, either. Anyone can enter it if they’re good enough. There’ve even been a few women in it over the years. They’ve done well, too, they’re generally very, very fast, but they don’t seem to have the strength or stamina of a man if the rounds go the full time. But Cris, have you noticed Rowan’s knives or his sword?”
“His…?” Cris shook his head, confused. “Er, no. I didn’t know he carried a sword.”
“Ah. Well, you may be right, perhaps he doesn’t now… although I’d have thought…” Tadeus broke off, frowning thoughtfully again. “No, he didn’t have it yesterday. He had his knives though. I think if he still has those he will still have the sword too.”
“I’ve seen the knives, sort of. Only in their scabbards of course. He had a… a hunting knife with a bone handle, but the others… the hilts are plain but beautiful, gold- and silver- chased.”
“They’re of g’Hakken dwarven make, and so is his sword if he still carries it,” said Hess unexpectedly, “They’re exquisite, truly things of beauty…”
At Cris’s perplexed look, Tadeus said, “Truly, sometimes I think you young lads must live under bloody rocks! Do you really not know about g’Hakken dwarven blades?”
“Peace, Tadeus,” said Hess, “The lad has no reason to know.”
Tadeus sighed.
“No, you’re right of course. I’m sorry, Cris, I shouldn’t have spoken to you so. G’Hakken dwarven blades are very, very rare, especially in the hands of a man. Even kings and princes don’t carry g’Hakken blades.” He paused, thinking about it. “The blade is designed and made specifically for its bearer, and the balance is perfect. ‘Tis said they are razor sharp but yet never need to be sharpened. And of course they never rust or pit. Some also say the blades will cut through anything, but I don’t know how true that is. The secret of their making is closely guarded by the g’Hakken clan of dwarves, and there are wild tales of star metals being used in their making. Star metals! Have you ever heard such damned nonsense?” Tadeus laughed at the absurdity of it. “Of course the dwarves do make other types of blade and very good they are too, but not like these special ones. Few are ever made and the g’Hakken are very particular about who they’ll make such a weapon for. ‘Tis said the blades are worth their weight in gold and diamonds, if you could just buy one.”
Cris’s eyes were as round as saucers.
“And Rowan has two of them?”
“No, no. He has one… well, he did win two, but…”
Both priests laughed, leaving Cris even more confused and feeling that he’d really lost the thread of this conversation.
“When Rowan won the second time, and remember Cris, no man has ever done that but him, he apparently told the judges…” Tadeus chuckled happily, “He told the judges ‘thank you very much, but I already have a fine blade. I don’t need another one’. The judges were shocked to the core of course, but they couldn’t just let such a Champion walk away with nothing. The g’Hakken dwarves decided they’d make him something else. Remember the sword hadn’t been made yet as it’s individually matched to its bearer. Rowan asked them to make an axe, not a battle-axe but a true woodcutter’s axe so that he might give it to his father. The poor dwarves were scandalised that he’d give it away, but when they realised that that really was exactly what he’d do… well, they calmed down, they’re craftsmen who understand the importance of good tools, after all… and they crafted it for his father, so the heft and balance of it is perfect for him.”
“They’re great ones for family, the dwarves,” Hess said with a smile, “So they made a pair of daggers for Rowan as well. They thought it only right that the only dual Champion ever should have something for himself too. I seem to remember hearing that Rowan carried the knives always. As for the sabre… well, he looked very fit and he might still train with it now, I suppose, but I doubt he’d ever use it in combat again; it would only be in dire need I think. ‘Twas said his father uses the axe every day in the forest though.”
“How would the dwarves feel about that?” Cris wondered.
“Oh, they’d be pleased. They like to see their fine blades being used as they’re intended to be, rather than just being hung on a wall as a trophy and gathering dust. They say that’s why Rowan’s sabre was his everyday sabre and his dress sabre too. I’d imagine he’s probably the only Champion to have ever done that. Most keep the g’Hakken blades ‘for show’, as if using them would somehow damage them. Bloody silly, but there it is,” Tadeus said, then suddenly became more serious, “But we were talking about Red Rowan and his men. They idolised him, as I said, and they would have gone to the Nether Hells and back for him… and in the end that’s exactly what they did.” Tadeus stared into the distance for a moment.
“You mean Messton…” Cris said quietly.
“Ah, he told you of that did he? I wonder if he told you the whole sorry story though? I’d think not.” Tadeus shook his head.
Cris thought about it. “I don’t know, but what he did tell us was horrific,” he said. “I don’t know how any of them survived it.”
“If it hadn’t been for your friend,
they wouldn’t have,” Hess said sadly.
**********
“That’s true enough, but it’s not the whole story,” Tadeus said grimly. “That cursed man, Rollo of Plait, decided he wanted to expand his territories, he claimed that in ages past parts of Sian, Wirran, Blevic and I don’t know where else were all part of Plait. Well, none of them wanted to be a part of Plait now… anyway, Rollo made several ‘incursions’, I suppose you’d say, into northern Wirran. Brutal bastard he was too. Started off burning crops and farms, then moved on to burning whole villages and murdering innocent people… The small garrisons up that way did their best, but of course Rollo was too strong for them.”
“Finally the Commandant had to act. Rowan had sent as many troops as he could up north, but even though he was Captain of the garrison, the Commandant had overall command of all the troops of Wirran, and well, there’d been friction between him and Rowan from the start. Short of insubordination, there wasn’t much more that Rowan could do…”
“Rowan had been 2 i/c to Captain Johan at Den Siddon… he was a good man, Johan, a good man. He and Rowan worked well in harness together, but the Commandant wasn’t happy, the old goat. I don’t really know what the problem was; Johan had had to fight long and hard to even get approval for Rowan to be transferred to Den Siddon, but he did, because he knew how good he was… maybe that put the Commandant off, the silly old fool. Or maybe it was simply that Rowan was young to hold that position in the most important garrison in Wirran. I don’t know. But I do know that the troops respected Rowan and would follow him anywhere, whereas nobody thought much of the Commandant.” It was obvious that the Commandant hadn’t impressed Tadeus either.
“Perhaps that was the basic problem,” he said after some thought, “Anyway, whatever it was, the Commandant found himself in a quandary when Johan died suddenly… Poor man fell from a horse, of all things. And there the Commandant was, with the best and probably most respected Guardsman in Wirran already on hand, a man who’d proven he could do the job, a man the troops would follow to the ends of the earth… and he hated him.”
“He always was a stupid man, that Commandant,” Hess remarked unexpectedly. “He probably hated Rowan simply because he was young, good-looking, and good at what he did. And not even arrogant with it. And of course, Rowan wasn’t a proper ‘gentleman’; not even a Wirran.”
Tadeus laughed.
“You’re probably right at that! Anyway, for once in his life, the Commandant finally made a good decision, and Rowan became Captain of the Guard at Den Siddon. He did things a little differently to Johan; he wasn’t quite as, er, subtle. Apparently, Rowan saw no reason why the Commandant shouldn’t respect his decisions and the way he ran the garrison when he knew what he was doing and had the record to prove it, and, well, he let him know his interference wasn’t needed and wasn’t wanted, with all due respect, Sir and thank you very much, Sir.” Tadeus laughed again. “I wish I’d seen the old boy’s face! Rowan can apparently be devastatingly, um, blunt. Just like all those foresters, really. They’re fine folk as I said, but they say what they mean, not like damned Wirrans. Actually, it was a bold move on Rowan’s part, he could have been transferred to some one-horse garrison out past Outer Woop Woop, but truly I don’t think it would have worried him too much; he’s a forester lad after all. And I think the Commandant knew he was simply too good a Guardsman to waste that way. They’d settled into some sort of truce, I suppose, but the Commandant made Rowan’s life difficult whenever he could, the useless petty old bugger. So, when Rowan wanted to commit more troops to the north to see Rollo off, the Commandant blocked it as long as he could.”
“Well, the Commandant finally mustered the troops from all over Wirran to Den Siddon, and he decided he’d lead them off to glory himself. Glory! The bloody fool!” Tadeus made no effort to hide his disgust. “Rowan and the other Captains weren’t happy when they found themselves headed for Messton-near-Edge, of all damned places. Terrible place for a battle, and I’m sure they let the Commandant know it, too. But the stupid man simply wouldn’t listen. He gave a stirring speech to the troops, and then when they were committed he hared off back to Den Siddon, to ‘take control of the back-up troops there’, he said. Bloody coward. The truth is he’d suddenly realised the size of Rollo’s forces and how badly the Wirrans were outnumbered, given that Rollo had the advantage of the terrain, and he ran to save his own backside.” Tadeus was pale with fury at the Commandant’s cowardice.
“I suppose Rowan told you something of what happened at Messton and Trill?” Tadeus asked. At Cris’s nod, he continued, “If it hadn’t been for Rowan’s courage and discipline, not one of those men would have survived, and Rollo would have regrouped and overrun Wirran, Sian, Blevic, Bassting and the One only knows where else… the Wirrans are the best warriors in the world, if they hadn’t managed to stop Rollo, I don’t know who else could have.” He shook his head slowly. “I suppose it was lucky really that Rollo turned out to be just as spineless as the Commandant when he saw how the Wirrans could fight. Not lucky for his own troops though…” Tadeus looked into the distance and shook his head again.
“I truly don’t know how Rowan managed to get any of his men back to Den Siddon alive. He’d sent a report from Messton, just before he set off to track Rollo, telling of the situation there and requesting assistance from the troops that the Commandant had held back in reserve. He’d expected them to be there when he got back from Trill, but well… they weren’t, to put it bluntly. I imagine he commandeered carts and drays and things wherever he could and I’m sure some folk must have helped them on the way…” Tadeus sighed.
“When he did finally get his few survivors back to Den Siddon, Rowan found the Commandant waiting for him, all ready to pin on the medals, with the back-up troops that had never been sent to help all neatly lined up. They say Rowan looked at the troops, then looked at his own exhausted, wounded men and then he moved his horse close to the Commandant’s, apparently so he could receive his medals, but more likely so that he could give him a good piece of his mind.”
“And then the damned Commandant made a terrible decision in a career full of them…” Tadeus looked disgusted, “He drew his sabre. He drew his bloody sabre against his own injured troopers and the man who’d saved so many of them! The Great One alone knows what he was thinking. Well, he probably wasn’t damned well thinking. Rowan was injured too of course, and quite badly… a serious chest wound, I believe, and his arm as well… he was probably right at the end of his tether. He apparently told the old bugger he’d already insulted his troops far more than was good for him, and drawing his sabre was the final straw. But he didn’t draw his own sabre. Not then. The Commandant announced loudly that he didn’t give a damn if the men or Rowan were insulted. I doubt he’d have been so brave if Rowan hadn’t been injured and exhausted. But, injured or not, Rowan was still the Champion, and truly, only a complete fool would have taken him on. He was running on fury and sheer courage, they say; and of course he’s Siannen too, and they’re a stubborn lot. Ha! Nothing was going to stop him that day.” Tadeus laughed unexpectedly.
“And then it seems that Rowan’s horse knocked hard against the other horse and nearly threw the poor beast off its feet, and it sent the Commandant and his sabre flying. Anyway, Rowan was off his horse and standing over the Commandant before the Commandant even had time to think about how he was going to get to his feet with some dignity still intact. He needn’t have worried. It seems that Rowan kicked him very hard, er, where a gentleman should never kick another gentleman…” Tadeus grinned cheerfully. “The Commandant had always said that Rowan wasn’t a gentleman, and it turned out he was right! He was damned lucky he still had his head on his shoulders, I’d have thought. He mightn’t have thought so at the time, I suppose. They say Rowan still hadn’t drawn his own sabre, didn’t draw it until he’d got his breath back and was ready to say what he’d come there to say.”
“And then Rowan simply told the Commandant and
the stunned troops a few home truths. I’m fairly sure he would have mentioned that he didn’t appreciate the Commandant using his personal dislike of him to ignore the needs of his injured troops like that, among er, other things. The sabre against his throat stopped most of the Commandant’s squealing and even though Rowan’s so softly spoken, the men heard every word he said. When he’d finished, Rowan gave the Commandant another couple of kicks for good measure, then threw the medals and his tattered Captain’s insignia on top of him, and turned and walked away, his horse following behind him. Now I think of it, the Commandant was damned lucky the horse didn’t kick him too! Anyway, the troops cheered Rowan to a man and saluted him, right fist to heart as they do in Wirran as he passed them. They wouldn’t forget that Rowan had managed to get at least some of their friends back from the carnage of Messton. Nobody was going to stop him or arrest him, and they weren’t rushing to help the Commandant either, now they knew the truth of the matter.” Tadeus paused for breath.
“The last thing Rowan said to the troops was ‘Please don’t call me “Red” Rowan now lads, it just reminds me of all your blood on my hands. I won’t need that to remember it.’ Why he should blame himself for it all, I don’t know, but apparently he did. Still does, probably, poor man. Anyway, he transferred command of the garrison to his 2i/c and then he just walked off with his battle-scarred horse and er, left. Nobody really knew where he went, and if anyone did they certainly weren’t telling. The Guard probably knew, but they can be a very closemouthed lot when it suits them, and of course the foresters are even more so. Anyway, most thought he must have died of his injuries… and yet here he is in Gnash, and looking remarkably fit and healthy.”