Red Rowan: Book 2: All Gone, the Gods

by Helen Gosney

  “Gods, Fess. Don’t you bloody start too.” Rowan’s voice was rough and weak, but his eyes were brighter and clearer and he seemed rational.

  “Rowan! Are you all right, Rowan?”

  Rowan nodded tiredly.

  “Aye, Fess…well, truly, no… but a bit better than I have been, I think.” He coughed and cursed with great fluency. “I’m bloody fed up with coughing, but I think my damned ribs must be starting to knit together now, it doesn’t hurt as much. You were right, Fess. I should have gone home with you and, and Bella…”

  “Aye, you should have, you stubborn bugger.”

  “’Tis all that’s kept me going,” Rowan said in unconscious imitation of his father. “I’ll be damned if I’ll give that bastard Rollo the satisfaction…” he coughed and struggled to get his breath again.

  “You rest now, Rowan,” Fess said softly. He could see he was exhausted. “I’ll be back later. The men and I are staying in your very comfortable barn.”

  Rowan smiled at him.

  “’Tis a lot better than under a tree, Fess. But I see you’re the Captain now. You should…” his voice trailed away as his eyes closed.

  “He might wake again in a bit,” Rhys said softly. “But, well, he mightn’t remember that he’s just seen you. Sometimes he does and sometimes he doesn’t. His chest is clearer and the fever isn’t as high as it was, but ‘tis not gone completely. At least we have a bit more hope now though. I think myself that he’s just too damned stubborn to let it beat him, no matter how ill he still is.”

  “I hope you’re right, Rhys. If it’s only a matter of being pig-headed, he’ll be all right.”

  **********

  13. “… thought we might have to do it ourselves.”

  A bit before sundown, Rhys poked his head into the barn. Fess and his troopers had turned their horses out with the others, then spread themselves out among the stalls and made themselves comfortable. One of them was rattling about in the hayloft, exploring, and another was chatting to a pretty young neighbour’s lass as she milked the cows.

  “Fess, Rowan’s awake, more or less. They’re changing his bandages, but he’s asking for you…” He stood very still suddenly, staring at a couple of plaited leather bridles hanging on a peg near where Fess stood. “Fess, where did you get those?” he asked carefully.

  “What? Oh, Rowan’s bridles? We found them on our way here… lucky we had a Pathfinder with us, there wasn’t even a damned track. The Gods only know how Rowan found his way.”

  Rhys smiled at him.

  “He never gets lost. No forester does. But this time he was so ill it was just as well his horses knew the way too. But you say you just found the bridles…?”

  “Aye, we were tracking him and we found them hanging on a low branch in a clearing with two dead Thallassians. The Pathfinder said it looked like they’d attacked Rowan and cut him badly. He had to be pretty sick by then, I think. The tracker said he’d fallen a few times before that. He was still keeping a fair pace, but he’d slowed down a lot. Mica and Soot are trained to protect Rowan and, well, that’s what they did. There was a lot of blood there, and most of it wasn’t the Thallassians’, it had to be Rowan’s.” Fess said grimly. If they hadn’t met Callan and Caleb at the Scream they would have expected to find Rowan dead among the trees. But no, somehow he’d made it home.

  “Thallassians!” Rhys said, wide-eyed. “Rowan said he’d left the bridles with the Thallassians, but… well, I thought he was delirious. The saddlers in the town are Thallassians,” he sighed. “That must be how he got that deep wound in his thigh. Come on, Fess, while he’s still fairly lucid. ‘Tis hard to believe it, I know, but I truly do think he’s getting better.”

  “Just a moment, Rhys,” Fess said quickly, “I… I brought Rowan’s sabre with me too. He left it in his quarters at Den Siddon, but… well, it didn’t seem right to… to just…” his voice trailed away uncertainly.

  Rhys nodded.

  “Thanks, Fess,” he said, “I’ll put it somewhere safe for him. I don’t think he’ll want to see it just now, but maybe when he’s a bit better…” He took it in his hand, surprised as he always was at the perfect balance and the sheer beauty of it. “’Tis a lovely thing…”

  A few minutes later they stood at the doorway to Rowan’s room. There seemed to be a lot of people in there. Rose was changing the sweaty bed linen, and his Gran and a little Bettran healer were bathing Rowan’s wounds and rebandaging him. Rowan sat in a chair by the window, clad only in a pair of comfortable linen sleeping pants, his head in his left hand as he watched the horses clustered nearby. He was biting his lip as he tried to breathe evenly and not make a fuss. His thigh was still heavily bandaged, as was the shoulder that had refused to heal, but his broken hand was uncovered. It was swollen and bruised, and the livid scar across it showed he’d been lucky to come out of it as well as he had, with a couple of fingers still splinted and most of his little finger amputated. Griff supported him carefully. Rowan’s normally strong athletic body looked gaunt and frail beside the rude good health of his cousin.

  Fess winced as the healer unwound the bandages from Rowan’s chest, revealing the long angry-looking new scar that ran around his body and the heavy bruising that still remained from the falls he’d taken on his way home.

  “Beldar’s britches! Rowan said that Rollo had just cut him a little bit,” Fess exclaimed in horror.

  Rhys looked at Fess’s shocked face and then at Rowan and shook his head.

  “Ah. Well, no. He was just damned lucky that it wasn’t a bit deeper. Bloody painful though, I’d imagine,” Rhys said slowly, “But ‘twas all the broken ribs underneath it that were the worst. Thorn, he’s the healer there, he said that’s why Rowan got the lung fever so badly.”

  “Gods, Rhys! I had no idea. I should have…I should have stopped him…” Fess said miserably.

  “Fess, you know you couldn’t have stopped him short of knocking him on the head and tying him up. And he must have truly thought that he’d be all right. Stubborn he is, but not bloody stupid.” Rhys said firmly.

  “No, he’s not. But you said he was asking for me?”

  Rhys nodded.

  “He said something about silver eagles, but… well, it meant nothing to us. He said you’d know…”

  Fess nodded in his turn. A Captain of the Wirran Guard wore a pair of solid silver eagles on his shoulders and, at Den Siddon, a bigger double-headed one over his heart. With one thing and another Fess hadn’t got his yet. All other ranks had to make do with embroidered eagles. Other garrisons wore a different symbol on their chest: the boar of Den Tissot, the tree of Den Kallen and the rose of Den Ree.

  Griff helped Rowan to sit up a bit straighter. Rowan gasped in pain as he somehow managed to hurt himself; he bit his lip so hard that it bled freely, but he said nothing as the Bettran healer deftly bound his chest.

  “There you go, Rowan, all done again. Now, if Rose has finished… yes? Good, we’ll get you back into bed then,” Thorn said, trying hard to be cheerful. At least things weren’t quite as dire as they had been, he thought. Rowan’s reserves of strength never ceased to amaze him. “And when you’re safely back in there, I’ll stitch your lip again and then it’s more potions for you, my lad.”

  Rowan looked up at him, suddenly looking so much like the strong-willed lad he’d been that Fess nearly laughed out loud.

  “Thorn, if I don’t get out of this bloody room, I’ll…well, truly, I’ll probably cry…” he said softly, “If I fall over, then I fall over, but I… I just have to …”

  “We’ll help you, Rowan. We won’t let you fall… up you come, laddie,” Griff said gently.

  Rowan managed to stand with the help of the healer and his cousin, and he tried not to groan as he limped to the door. Fess and Rhys moved quickly out of the way and watched his slow, careful progress down the hallway. He made it to the end almost unassisted, turning his head away from the beautiful g’Hakken sabre that Rhys had left inside the do
or beside his axe. He rested there for a bit, looking out at the garden and the trees. He needed more help coming back, but everyone was smiling as Rowan finally got back safely to his bed. He was exhausted, trembling and sweating and panting for breath again by the time he was there, but somehow he’d done it. Nobody had really dared to believe that he could.

  “Thanks, Thorn, and thank you too, Griff. I couldn’t even do that much if you weren’t here to help me…” he managed. Griff smiled at him as he tossed his long brown braid back over his shoulder. He was a big strong fellow, tall and heavily built as most Siannens are and he had the same striking hazel eyes as Rowan and Rose and their father.

  “That’s all right, Rowan lad. You’ve helped me often enough in the stables and the barn, and with calming a fractious beast. ‘Tis no trouble,” he said softly. He blinked rapidly and beat a hasty retreat.

  Rhys hunted the others out, and Fess sat quietly by the bedside until Rowan seemed more comfortable. He was about to say something when Rowan spoke again. His voice was still rough and weak, his breathing difficult, but he was lucid and determined to say what he wanted to before the healer’s potions overtook him again.

  “Fess, I forgot to congratulate you, I think. If you hunt in that little chest beside the bed in my old quarters, if it’s still there…” he coughed again and cursed tiredly. “Dammit! I don’t make a good invalid… I’ve worn myself out already, but it was worth it to see the trees properly again. Anyway, in that… that little chest you should find my Silver Eagles. They were Johan’s, and you should have them too…”

  “Aye, Rowan, I will. Thank you.” Fess was touched that Rowan would even remember them: the ‘cursed things’ as he’d always called them, usually because he’d stabbed himself with them again.

  Something else occurred to Rowan. He continued slowly, “Bugger! The damned things were on the jacket I had at Messton. As if I didn’t have enough eagles and things to show who I was, what with the cursed sash and the breastplate and everything else. And I… I’m not sure what I did with the bloody thing, ‘twas truly only fit to be thrown out but …” he tried to remember, “ I think I might have hung it up in the wardrobe, filthy bloody thing that it was…”

  “Don’t worry, Rowan. I’ll find it and the Eagles. Bella and I haven’t moved into the Cottage yet, we’re still in the Married Quarters… Nothing much has been touched in there since you… since Messton…” Fess said slowly. He and Bella simply weren’t ready to move in yet, but he knew from the cleaners who’d told him that Rowan had left his sabre on the bed that Rowan and Zara’s things were still there. In the scant week between Zara’s death and his being sent to Messton Rowan had planted two cherry trees for Zara and baby Liam in the garden of the Captain’s Cottage, but he’d had no time and no inclination to go through her things. Bella would sort through Zara’s bits and pieces and he’d do Rowan’s when he returned. It was the least they could do for their friends now. And they’d take care of the cherry trees too… Zara had always loved cherries.

  “But what about all your medals, Rowan? And your Champions’ Medals?” he asked carefully.

  Rowan shook his head.

  “I don’t care, Fess, truly. Just throw them out. I suppose the sabre should go back to Finn…”

  Fess was scandalised. Rowan was a true hero, whether he believed it or not, and the only dual Champion ever, and he deserved much better than that. He thought hard for a moment.

  “How about I give the medals to the Guard Museum in Den Siddon, Rowan? That’s where they should be if you don’t want them. It’s not right to, to just…”

  “All right, Fess, if that’s what you want to do. I should care, I know, but I… I just can’t.” He looked and sounded very weary. “Curse these bloody potions! I can hardly think straight without them, but I’ve got no chance with them.” He blinked sleepily as he tried to pull himself together. Something was fretting him and he needed to ask Fess about it. He just hoped he might remember what he was told this time. “What about the Commandant, Fess? I’m sorry, but you’ll have to courtmartial the old bastard without me, I think.”

  Fess realised that now. He’d hoped that Rowan would have been able to come back with him to Den Siddon, but no. It was obvious that he’d not be going anywhere for a good while. Fess had never seen anyone so ill, but from what Rhys and Rose had said, his poor friend had been even sicker than he was now. It didn’t bear thinking about.

  “Don’t worry, Rowan. We’ll get him for you and the lads,” he said softly, “Your reports alone will hang him. The hearing’s scheduled for a couple of weeks’ time.”

  Fess thought of all the men who might have got back to Den Siddon alive if the Commandant had only sent the backup troops as Rowan had asked, and he knew that Rowan unfairly and unreasonably blamed himself for his failure to save more of them. Seeing his friend so ill now only made Fess more determined to see that the Commandant got his just desserts.

  “We’ll get him, I promise you.”

  Rowan nodded wearily. He seemed barely conscious.

  “Good…” his voice faded as his heavy eyes closed again.

  Rhys came into the room, as light-footed as Rowan.

  “You will get that bastard, won’t you?” he said fiercely.

  Fess looked up at the big, quietly spoken man. He was unlike his son, but so very like him at the same time.

  “Aye, Rhys. I’ll get him all right. I’ll see the bastard hang if it’s the last thing I ever do.”

  “Good lad,” Rhys said softly. “Griff and I thought we might have to do it ourselves.”

  **********

  In due course, the Commandant was court-martialled and sentenced to death by unanimous decision. The night before the execution was to be carried out the Commandant somehow escaped from custody; three nights later his tortured body was found hanging from the battlements of Den Siddon. The culprits were never found.

  **********

  14. “A bloody nightmare.”

  Rowan’s recovery had taken a long time, but he was finally coming out of his misery and he was working on building up his strength again. He still had a way to go to regain his full fitness, but his insistence that he’d go to Plausant Bron, daft though Rhys thought it was, seemed to be making him push himself hard. At least he no longer looked as frighteningly gaunt and frail as he had, and maybe a journey might help ease his troubled mind, no matter how daft an idea it was. He’d still said little about Messton or its aftermath, and virtually nothing of Trill. Fess and the priest had told the family more than Rowan had.

  Rhys had been surprised to see Rowan doing his sabre drills the last few mornings, but he’d said nothing. He’d truly thought that Rowan might never touch the sword again, but no. Though he’d looked pale and ill as he’d stood outside the barn, the scabbard at his hip, the blade had slipped into his hand as if it belonged there. Of course, in some ways it did. Rowan had adjusted the grip of his injured right hand, the one with the missing finger, without thinking about it; he’d tossed the sword carefully from hand to hand a few times as he always did and then he’d slipped into the oddly intense focus of his training drill. His injured leg didn’t seem to hamper him too much, but his shoulder and hand did, and he certainly didn’t have his full power and speed yet. Even so, he’d completed the drill well, Rhys thought as he watched from the house, and most swordsmen would be happy enough with it.

  When Rowan stopped though, he’d stood completely still for a couple of minutes as he stared at the g’Hakken blade with a look of mingled horror, revulsion and resignation on his face. Finally he’d shuddered, resheathed the sabre and gone to the horse trough and dunked his head in the cool water.

  Rowan still looked ill every time he picked up the sword, but he was doing the drills every morning before breakfast. Already Rhys could see the old skill returning. Rowan’s body knew what to do with a sabre, even if his battered mind was reluctant to accept it.

  My poor brave lad, Rhys thought. You’ve fought so hard
for so damned long… I wish I could help you. And maybe I can. He headed out to the barn as Rowan headed to the horse trough.

  Rowan came to his feet in one smooth swift movement, water from the horse trough flying from his braid as he spun to face whoever was coming up so quietly behind him. His eyes widened in horror. Rhys stood there perfectly still, staring at the blade levelled at his chest in a rock-steady hand.

  Rowan began to shake so much he almost dropped the sabre.

  “Bloody Hells! Pa…! I… I’m so sorry… I…”

  Rhys closed his eyes for a moment and took a very deep breath. He’d never imagined he’d find himself on the wrong end of Rowan’s sabre, but he knew that Rowan was even more appalled than he was himself. He stepped forward and put his arms around his son’s trembling shoulders.

  “It’s all right, Rowan. You’ve just given me the most awful bloody fright I’ve ever had in my life, but I’m… I’m all right.”

  “But… but, Pa! I could have… I damned nearly killed you…” Rowan looked like he was about to be sick.

  “But you didn’t, lad… you haven’t. I’m all right. You’ve given me a few more grey hairs though, I think,” Rhys tried a smile, “Next time perhaps I should bring my axe with me.”

  Rowan stared at him again, then managed to relax a little as he fumbled the blade back into its scabbard.

  “No. Don’t do that. Just make a bit more noise, or say something so I know ‘tisn’t… so I know you’re not a bloody Plaiten…” he sighed and shook his head, “I’m so sorry, Pa. I should never have touched this cursed thing again.”

  Rhys was intrigued.

  “Why did you, Rowan? I thought you’d… I thought you didn’t want to…”

  Rowan shook his head slowly as he tried to put it into words.

  “I don’t… I don’t want to, truly. But… I think maybe I might need to…I know you think I’m daft, wanting to go to Plausant Bron… and maybe you’re right too. It sounds bloody daft enough, doesn’t it? But… Pa, you know Rose wants to come with me when I go…?”