Red Rowan: Book 2: All Gone, the Gods

by Helen Gosney

  “Rowan! Where’s Zara? Was she with you? What the hell has happened to you? No, no, shut up you idiot, let us get you inside!” she’d been terrified for him and for Zara, but as she’d loosened his grip on Soot’s mane, she’d seen the gold and silver ring on his little finger and known immediately that Zara was dead. And the baby had to be too, it was simply too early for it to be born. She’d tried desperately to keep calm as Pa had finally come to see what all the fuss was about. She hadn’t cried until later, when they’d got Rowan inside and Thorn the healer had examined him.

  He was a dark, doe-eyed little Bettran, this healer, and he was well-used to dealing with the sorts of sometimes dreadful injuries the foresters suffered, but he was obviously shaken as he’d looked up at Pa and said, “Rhys, I don’t know what the hell has happened here, but I think these look like the sort of wounds you’d get in a… in a battle of some sort… they were made by blades and spears and the Gods only know what. But they’re…” he’d hesitated. “They’re at least a couple of weeks old I’d say. Probably a bit more. Except for that deep cut in his thigh, that’s a lot more recent, two or three days maybe. The rest look like they were almost healed and he’s fallen, or something… perhaps he was light-headed with the fever and came off his horse. See all this fresh bruising here, and here? Well, all down that side, really. Oh, and around the back there, too… A couple of falls, at least.” The healer shook his head in dismay. “He must have landed on something very bloody hard when he fell, I think. Anyway, he’s opened up this long gash again, and the one on his shoulder, lost quite a bit of blood too. And there’s … Gods only know, six or seven or eight ribs broken underneath that long cut… I can hear them grating as he breathes… I don’t like that blood he’s been coughing up either. Where in the Nether Hells has he come from, hurt like this?”

  Thorn had looked down unhappily at the man he’d known for all of his life, had delivered as a baby in fact. Rowan had always been strong and healthy and… well, unstoppable, Thorn had thought. Even when he’d broken his arm at eight, he’d sat through the setting of the bone with no potions at all: just sat there biting his lip and holding Rose’s hand, with his Gran and young Glyn hovering behind them, and he’d not said a word. Rose had cried, and Glyn had sniffled, but not Rowan. Now though, even cleaned up and freshly bandaged, propped up with pillows to ease his breathing, Rowan looked terrible and sounded worse. At least they’d managed to get some healing and painkilling potions into him, but he’d been unable to eat and the fever was rampant.

  Thorn believed Rowan would probably have been all right, if not for all those broken ribs. The other wounds were messy and painful and had bled a lot, but the damaged ribs had meant he’d simply been unable to breathe properly, and the lung fever had settled deep in his chest. He might have torn his lung too, coughing up blood like that. The healer had rarely seen anyone so desperately ill. He sighed and looked up at his old friend again. Rhys looked to have aged ten years in the last hour, but Thorn knew that he’d want to hear the truth.

  “Rhys, I won’t lie to you… you can see for yourself how ill he is… I’ll do whatever I can, but I truly can’t do much and I must tell you, the lung fever spares none who’re as sick as this. None. Rowan’s young and strong and fit, and just as stubborn as you are,” Thorn had shaken his head miserably, “But I truly don’t think he can survive this…” He didn’t really know how the poor lad had survived this long.

  Rose had held Rowan’s hand as Thorn had drained the fluid from his chest a couple of hours later. She’d been horrified at the thought of it and the doing of it had been awful, though less awful than she’d feared. Rowan had regained consciousness just as they’d been about to start. He’d been so ill that it was hard to say how much he’d really understood about what was happening, and he didn’t remember much about it now, but somehow he’d kept still as he’d said he would. He’d clutched her hand as if it was the only thing that had made sense to him. And there’d been so much fluid… she could scarcely believe he’d been able to breathe at all. It had hurt him a lot, she knew, on top of everything else, but it had helped him too and somehow he’d still been alive the next day.

  “Just too damned stubborn to give in,” Gran had said gently as she’d smoothed a bit of hair back from Rowan’s face and kissed his cheek. “You keep fighting, my brave laddie… keep fighting it for as long as you can…” Then, so softly that Rose was never really sure she’d heard it, “But ‘tis all right to give in when it’s so bloody hard and it hurts so fraggin much, lovie. Truly, ‘tis all right, my sweet lad…”

  Rose dragged her thoughts back to the present and looked over at her brother, restless in his sleep as he always was now. Cris sat quietly beside her, sipping his tea. He still thought it was probably best to just keep his mouth shut for now. He hoped he’d have thought of something sensible to say when the time came.

  Rose sighed and continued.

  “Poor Mica had long scabby cuts on his neck and his chest and his rump; you can still see the scars… Of course, Rowan was more worried about him than he was about himself…” Rose hesitated again for a moment, “Rowan’s always been, well… indestructible, even as a little lad, and he’d never been sick in his life; but the lung fever was horrible, for a long time we truly thought he wouldn’t survive it… in the end I think it was only his sheer stubbornness that got him through it,” she shook her head. “When he was ill, he’d mutter about…well, I don’t know, really… about Zara, and Mica and Soot of course, and… and village wells, of all things… but then sometimes it was about babies… and blood… He was delirious; it made no sense at all, but it was horrible…”

  Of course they’d known nothing of Messton at that stage, she thought. It wasn’t until the local priest had come a few days later and told them he’d had word of a dreadful battle in Wirran that they’d had any idea at all of how Rowan had been injured. Rowan had been able to tell them almost nothing before he finally lapsed into unconsciousness, and even that had been confused. He wouldn’t have told them of his own heroism anyway. A battered and weary Fess had told them though, and the story had left them stunned and appalled by all that Rowan had suffered and desperately proud of his courage in spite of it.

  **********

  “Even after the fever finally broke, and he started to get a lot better, he just seemed… I don’t know, in a dream almost… sort of detached… it’s hard to explain really. He was my rock when Glyn died, even though the two of them were closer than brothers and he was heartbroken too, but… he’d been so terribly ill, and he’d been living in a nightmare for weeks, and it was too much, he just had nothing left. Everyone has a breaking point, no matter how strong they are; I think he just finally reached his …”

  Sometimes at night she’d heard Rowan sobbing, heartbroken. She’d gone to him, but he’d been asleep and she hadn’t had the heart to wake him. A couple of times she’d found Gran already there, sitting quietly beside his bed and weeping. She’d never felt so helpless. She shook her head and continued slowly, “Often Rowan didn’t seem to sleep at all, he’d wander around the house for a bit, as quiet as a cat like he’s always been; then he’d go out into the forest. More often than not he’d end up sleeping in the straw in the stable with Mica and Soot… it broke my heart that I couldn’t help him…”

  She’d wanted to, desperately, and she’d tried, but for the first time in her life she couldn’t reach her twin. Her strong, lively brother had been crushed, so frail and debilitated after the lung fever that had come so close to killing him that he was almost unrecognisable, and so lost in his own misery, grieving for Zara and baby Liam, haunted by his memories of Messton, that nothing could penetrate. Eventually he’d recovered his strength and been able to speak of his loss, of his pain and his anguish and his burning anger. But he’d never told her what had really happened at Messton and he couldn’t bring himself to speak to her of Trill at all. Rose knew that he’d told Rhys and Griff some things, but she knew there was a l
ot that still fretted him.

  Rowan stirred briefly again, but didn’t wake. After a moment, Rose continued the tale. “He… he fretted about the strange things that’d been happening everywhere and… and the only thing that seemed to make any sense to him was that he should go to Plausant Bron and try to find out why it was, what was causing it. Well, it didn’t make a lot of sense to the rest of us, it seemed daft, truly… but we couldn’t stop him. We’d have had to chain him up too. He would have set off more or less right away if Mica hadn’t been hurt, and he’d been able to.” She paused, thinking about it. The stallion had healed far more quickly than Rowan had. Of course, Rowan had been far more seriously injured. And he’d taken better care of his horse than he had of himself.

  “He says he’s all right now, but he feels… he feels brittle; it’s an odd word to use like that, isn’t it, but that’s what he says… he tells me the worst of the nightmares have gone, more or less, and I think he’s almost as he used to be… and certainly he’s nearly as strong and fit again as he’s ever been, but he’s quieter, and… more driven, and… and… more vulnerable, I suppose. He bottles things up too much… He seems calm usually, but… locked away inside him there’s a deep burning anger at the Gods for taking Zara and the baby like that, for all the innocent lives that’ve been taken. Oh! Listen to me going on! I’m so sorry, Cris, I shouldn’t have rattled on like that… but I thank you for listening.”

  Cris looked at her in the pale morning light, then over at Rowan, asleep but not peaceful in the corner with Mica and Soot standing beside him. Bess and Max were close by. Cris had never realised just how restless a sleeper Rowan really was. He himself could and did sleep soundly through anything, but Rowan tossed and turned, sometimes muttering incomprehensible things without waking. Once he’d shuddered violently and lain there wide-eyed and shaking, swearing softly. Cris would have gone to him, but Rose put her hand on his arm and shook her head miserably. The nightmares still haunted Rowan no matter what he said, but there truly was no way to help him and he hated to be fussed over. Mica and Soot had nuzzled his face and he’d stroked their muzzles until he was calm enough to fall asleep again.

  Cris thought such restlessness seemed odd when Rowan had initially fallen asleep so quickly. But no, perhaps it wasn’t so odd after all; perhaps the oddness was that he could get to sleep at all.

  “No, Rose,” he said quietly, “I’m glad you told me, but I wish I knew the right things to say to you… I don’t know how he can bear it…”

  **********

  24. “… it sounds like its heart is broken...”

  In the afternoon of the next day they came to a place where the road descended into the valley. Across the other side they could see where it climbed up steeply again, and they realised they’d finally found the bridge over the Catspaw River. They’d almost been starting to think that there simply wasn’t a bridge, that the road would turn away from the river somewhere ahead.

  Mica tossed his head and pawed the ground, clearly unhappy about something. Soot was restless too, sidling sideways regardless of what Rose wanted him to do.

  “What’s wrong with you two silly ratbags?” Rowan patted Mica’s dappled neck as he looked about to see what the problem might be. The place was oddly silent, there were no birds at all, but apart from that there was nothing untoward. “There’s nothing here to...”

  “What’s that?” said Cris suddenly.

  From deep in the valley came a soft sobbing wail that echoed strangely so they couldn’t tell its exact source. There was still nothing remarkable to see though.

  “It’s not something else caught in one of those cursed purple things, is it?” Rose wondered.

  They hadn’t seen any more of the strange plants, but that didn’t mean that there weren’t any. From their high vantage point they could see endless green treetops moving in the wind in an almost unbroken canopy, but certainly nothing like the sinister purple thing.

  They listened carefully. No, it didn’t sound quite like an animal in distress, but something was certainly very upset. The cold wind was gusting straight into their faces and the only smell was the scent of rainwashed earth and leaves. No, there was something else.

  “It doesn’t really sound like an animal, does it? But what the hell can it be, away out here?” Rowan asked slowly. “And can you smell something… I don’t know… charred?”

  The others nodded unhappily. There was a sort of burnt, singed smell. The wailing cry came again and something about it made them all shiver slightly.

  “It sounds like the place is haunted!” Cris said, almost serious about it.

  “I don’t know about ‘haunted’, but I truly don’t think that’s just the wind...” replied Rowan slowly, nudging Mica forward. The stallion tossed its head again and strode ahead.

  “Whatever it is, it sounds like its heart is broken...” Rose said softly as she urged Soot to follow him.

  The way down to the valley floor twisted and turned and they couldn’t see very far ahead through the trees. Sometimes they caught a glimpse of one or other of the huge statues that guarded the way to the bridge. The eerie, distressing sound became louder as they neared the bottom of the slope, but there was nothing to be seen until they came closer to the river. Now they could see the great guardian statues seated each side of the old road, though the bridge was still hidden. The ground around them was blackened and charred, and the trees were badly burned, their leaves gone and their scorched limbs twisted.

  “What the hell’s happened here?” said Rowan, swinging lightly to the ground and calming the restless horses. “Wait here, I’ll see what’s to be seen. There doesn’t look to be any danger now, but it’s best to be sure.” He loosed his sabre in its scabbard, but didn’t draw it. Instead a dagger appeared in his other hand like magic.

  Rose and Cris watched him anxiously as he prowled around, light-footed as always. He looked almost frighteningly competent and Cris realised suddenly that this was a side of Rowan that he’d never seen, despite the daily training he maintained. Rowan might not want to use his skills seriously again, but as Rose had said, he would if it were truly necessary. Cris had the distinct feeling that he really wouldn’t like to have Rowan coming after him with a knife and serious intent. As they waited Rose nocked an arrow to her short bow and Cris drew one of his trusty ratting knives. They were both skilled with the weapons, but they hoped they wouldn’t have to actually use them.

  “I can’t see anything... Great bloody Hells!” Rowan exclaimed suddenly, stepping towards the statue on the left.

  The strange keening ceased abruptly and the statue seemed to wobble for a moment; then it got to its feet surprisingly quickly and loomed above Rowan, its great head hanging low.

  Mica lunged forward, with Soot slightly further back as Rose struggled to restrain him. He wasn’t about to obey her if Rowan might need him. Rowan halted both horses with a word and grabbed at their bridles just in case the stallions decided to take matters into their own, er, hooves. He thought it unlikely, but still...

  He called back to the others without turning around, “Rose, don’t shoot, for the Gods’ sakes! ‘Tis all right, but can both of you stay back for a moment...? I don’t want to upset the poor fellow more than he already is.”

  The statue wasn’t a statue at all, but a medium-sized troll, who stood head and shoulders above Rowan. Huge tears were rolling down its rough cheeks, and it snuffled and wiped a hairy hand hopelessly across its face.

  Rowan said something in a strange gravelly language that sounded like he was chewing rocks. The troll looked startled and stared down at Rowan in wonder. Rowan gargled out something else as he resheathed his dagger, and then he turned to Mica and rummaged in his saddlebag for a clean shirt.

  “Here, take this, my friend... please let us try to help you,” he said gently as he offered it to the troll, which hadn’t moved.

  The troll took it blindly and scrubbed at its face. Gradually it seemed to become calmer, and
eventually it gave a mighty sigh and looked down at Rowan, its deep sapphire eyes still bright with tears.

  “I thank thee, man. It is a long time since I have seen thy kind so close to the Mountains of the Gods,” it said courteously in a voice like the rumbling of a far-off avalanche. All trolls spoke the common tongue as well as their native Trollish. They’d realised long ago that it was physically difficult for men to speak Trollish; for some reason they became very hoarse very quickly and couldn’t speak at all. If the trolls wanted to engage in trade or live in the towns and cities of men, they simply had to be able to communicate with them. Even isolated troll communities learned the tongue for reasons of trade and the politeness of being able to converse with chance visitors, and this forlorn troll was no different.

  “Tell thy friends I will not hurt them and bid them come closer; indeed thou art welcome here... but thou wilt not be able to cross my beautiful Bridge...”

  Great tears welled in its eyes again and it sank to its knees. Rowan could see that its back was badly burned, with huge blisters broken and weeping. He tried to comfort it as best he could, wondering what could possibly have happened here to cause such desolation.

  From where he now was, Rowan could finally see the bridge clearly. It was plain to see that it had once been a very fine bridge indeed - a magnificent stone bridge, standing high above the river bed on great arched supports, its balustrades fancifully carved with figures of birds and animals and leering gargoyles and guarded by the massive statue of a seated warrior with a great sword across its knees.

  Now, though, the statue’s sword was broken and its battered face stared up from the ground near Rowan’s feet. Its body was badly chipped and cracked and blackened by fire. Of the once-proud bridge, all that remained was part of the span reaching for the far side. The rest of it was nothing but a huge pile of rubble strewn across the river, the few timbers remaining from the roadbed splintered and charred and still faintly smoking. They certainly would not be able to cross the river here.