by Helen Gosney
“Go to hell, the whole damned lot of you!” Rollo shouted and threw his bottle at the door.
You’ll be there before me if I’ve got anything to do with it, Rowan thought fiercely. The burning fury settled to a cold hard knot of hatred inside him. He looked around at his troopers. Every one of them showed the same fury and determination that he felt himself. He gave his orders calmly and clearly.
“Fire the building, lads, and kill any who come out. Give them no quarter. They’ll get as much mercy as they showed these poor folk of Trill,” Rowan said. “And Rollo’s mine. If he gets past me, kill him.”
As the men inside finally realised that the tavern was burning there was first shocked disbelief and then panic as they struggled to get the back door open. When they finally did, they found there was a fierce fire burning there and grim Wirran troopers waiting for them on the other side. Rollo’s men panicked even more as arrows flew towards them and they turned on each other as they struggled to get to the narrow front door. A few tried to smash the leadpaned windows with little success.
Rollo, huge man that he was, knew that he simply wouldn’t be able to get out through a window, even though he thought he could probably break them all right. He watched his men fighting viciously among themselves as they scrambled for the door, and he saw them cut down by the Wirran troopers outside. A ragged looking lot, the Wirrans were, and not all that many of them either: just a couple of archers and the rest were swordsmen and most seemed to have an injury of some sort but they were deployed around the tavern in a very businesslike manner and they were doing their job with commendable efficiency.
As soon as he’d heard the quiet Siannen voice outside, demanding his surrender, Rollo’s heart had sunk. He’d known who it had to be and a quick glance out the window confirmed his fears. Of course he didn’t know the cursed man personally: the Duke didn’t mingle socially with mere Guardsmen after all, no matter what their rank, and certainly not with this one. But he knew him all the same: this particular young Captain of the Guard with the distinctive braided dark red hair had humiliated him in the last Champions’ Trophy and had cut a dreadful swathe through his troops at Messton. Rollo had kept well back and well away from him during the battle, yet here he was. The dual Champion himself.
Rollo saw that the fellow looked as weary and bedraggled and battered as all of the rest of the Wirrans and his right arm and hand were injured; of course as he well knew the bloody man could use his cursed g’Hakken sabre equally well in his other hand. He wasn’t wearing chainmail and he couldn’t hold a shield, but he seemed to be having little trouble killing more than his share of the men running from the tavern.
You clever, clever bugger, Rollo thought. We can only come at you through that one bloody door now. He cursed Rowan soundly as he studied him more closely. He looked exhausted and his arm was obviously hindering him, but Rollo almost found himself admiring him for his sheer courage, discipline and skill as the pile of dead men around him steadily grew. Almost. Rollo still had to find a way to get past him and his bloody troopers himself.
Finally the Duke simply had to escape the flames and smoke of the tavern or die there as many of his men already had at the hands of their fellows. The roof was close to collapse too, and nobody still inside would survive when that happened. Rollo had sobered up a lot and he was surprisingly steady on his feet as he barrelled out the door. He thought he heard a soft voice say “He’s mine, lads” and there in front of him stood the Champion, his beautiful, blood drenched g’Hakken sabre at the ready, the insignia of his Captain’s rank hanging from a torn and bloody sleeve of the black uniform of Wirran, and the double-headed silver eagle of Den Siddon over his heart.
Rollo was uninjured and certainly more rested than the ragtag Wirrans and their battered Captain who faced him with fire in his eyes. He thought this time he had the advantage and he was still just drunk enough to ignore the big pile of dead men around Rowan.
He ran forward. Ah yes, as he’d thought, the Siannen’s usual blinding speed and superb balance just weren’t there, and his right arm and hand were useless to him. Rowan had managed to parry the first few heavy blows well enough with the sabre in his left hand, but Rollo’s confidence was buoyed by his opponent’s obvious impairment. He feinted to the left then swung his sword hard at the Guardsman’s side. He had the satisfaction of feeling the other man’s ribs snap under his blade as his own great strength inexplicably failed him. His sword carved a long and bloody, increasingly shallow wound around the Guard’s body as the Duke collapsed to the ground.
Several more men raced from the flames as the roof of the tavern finally fell in, keeping the Wirrans busy as Rowan stood swaying a little on his feet. He put one foot on Rollo’s chest and pulled his sabre from the man’s heart, wishing that he’d been able to be a little bit faster so that Rollo wouldn’t have cut him at all. It was damned hard with a useless arm that messed up his balance and a broken nose he couldn’t breathe through properly. Still, the wound wasn’t really hurting, so maybe it wasn’t much. It was suddenly much harder to breathe though. He blinked down at his chest. His shirt was hanging off him, a great gash from Rollo’s sword running around it, and it was sodden with blood, but oddly there was still little pain. He felt himself stagger a bit and he knew he was going to fall if he wasn’t very careful. Sit down, Rowan lad, he thought. Sit down before you bloody fall down. The lads are doing all right, they don’t need you for the moment… must keep an eye on that fire though, with all this damned thatch everywhere …
He found himself slumped against a wall, not quite sure how he’d got there, but it seemed a good place to be as his troopers battled what must surely be the last of Rollo’s men. He looked at his wound more closely, feeling oddly detached as he saw blood pouring out, saw shards of bone and finally felt the pain of it. Dammit, he thought wearily, this isn’t good. Not good at all. How the hell am I going to get the men home like this? And it bloody hurts too.
He tried to tear his shirt into something he could press against the wound, but he simply couldn’t manage to do it. He pressed the deepest part of the long gash closed as best he could with his hand, clamped his injured arm and hand against as much of the rest of the wound as he could and tried to breathe in spite of the terrible pain in his chest.
**********
39. “You don’t exactly encourage visitors, do you?”
Rowan was brought back rudely to the present as Beldar came at him again, swinging his sword two-handed at his body. He dived away, somersaulting to his feet as the blade hissed through the space where he’d been. His abused knee finally gave way beneath him with a sharp stab of pain, and he heard the giant’s roar of satisfaction as he struggled to stand. He looked up and saw Beldar coming towards him with his great sword at the ready.
Dammit, things aren’t looking too bloody good here, Rowan thought, but I’m not quite finished yet. He put the point of his sabre between two of the flagstones of the floor, hoped devoutly that it wouldn’t slip, and somehow scrambled to his feet, trying to ignore the pain and instability in his knee.
As Beldar came nearer, Rowan braced himself, then using the sabre as a support he jumped high, pivoted and kicked out as hard as he could. His injured leg wasn’t much use, but the other one was and he had the satisfaction of hearing what was undoubtedly a foul curse from Beldar as the giant’s sword flew from his hand. Of course Rowan still had the slight problem of not being able to use the sabre as a crutch and wield it too and he couldn’t see his staff anywhere handy. Time to try something else.
Beldar was still spitting curses as he hurried to retrieve his sword. He turned to see Rowan standing unsteadily, using the sabre for support and watching him carefully. Suddenly a grin split the Warrior’s dour face.
“Ha! So you cannot stand. You cannot wield a sabre when you need it to hold you up!” he taunted.
“True, unfortunately,” Rowan replied, “But I do at least have this…” A g’Hakken dagger appeared in his left
hand.
“A knife? Do you think to defeat me now with a knife?” Beldar laughed happily at the absurdity of it.
“Well, to be truthful, Beldar, I do have two of them, and a nice heavy hunting knife as well,” Rowan replied reasonably, “But I doubt that I’ll need all of them. With all modesty, I’m really quite good with a knife, especially these knives. Do you want to try me and see for yourself?”
Beldar shook his head in disbelief and laughed again.
“Ha! Well, you certainly have courage. But no. No, I don’t think so… it doesn’t seem fair to continue our game when you’re injured.”
The giant turned and walked away a few steps. Suddenly he spun around and launched himself at Rowan again, his great sword raised for a killing blow.
Rowan threw the dagger as best he could, though it cost him his precarious balance. I didn’t think my being injured would stop you, you bloody lunatic, he thought as he fell again. He didn’t think much of Beldar’s idea of a ‘game’ either and he drew his second dagger as Beldar roared for a second time.
Rowan tried desperately to get to his feet as he knew he couldn’t throw the knife effectively from the floor, but his knee refused to bear any of his weight at all after the latest insult to it. He looked up at Beldar, hoping to have time to throw the second dagger, no matter how bad a throw it’d inevitably be. He fully expected to see the giant’s terrible blade whistling towards him, and he didn’t think he could avoid it again, under the circumstances, but Beldar was standing very still, staring in amazement at the dagger lodged almost to the hilt in his midriff, bright blood already spilling around it. Rowan was only slightly less surprised: he’d really thought it hadn’t been one of his better throws.
“You are truly a brave man, Rowan of Yaarl, and you have fought well,” the Warrior said almost in disbelief as he plucked the dagger from his body, “Very well indeed. You are full of surprises. And you are the only one to have ever done that…” The crimson spurting slowed and stopped as the deep wound sealed itself closed.
Rowan stared up at him, unable to think of anything to say. He just hoped that Beldar would end it quickly. He did. The Warrior turned on his heel without another word, sheathing his great blade at his back, and strode away into the mists.
Rowan struggled to his feet, using the sabre for support as the beings whispered among themselves. He’d resheathed his dagger and his breathing had slowed by the time a rather arrogant -looking young man came towards him.
“And who the hell are you?” Rowan asked abruptly, knowing he couldn’t fight effectively again, and not really caring if he offended anyone or not. He was done with politeness.
“I am the one they call Pleer Bon... he who brings pain and suffering... and death too, sometimes, eventually,” said the young man, stepping forward. “Is that what you seek here... pain? Suffering? Perhaps you are afraid to face possible death?” he asked, his voice oddly self-important. “Perhaps you are afraid to face me?”
“No. I’ve lived through my share of pain and suffering, and I’ve seen enough of it to last me forever. And I’ve faced death before too, one way and another… and with your friend there … I’m not afraid of you,” Rowan replied truthfully.
Pleer Bon clasped Rowan’s head carefully with one hand, put the other hand on his shoulder, and looked deeply into his eyes. Rowan gazed at him, defiant, and didn’t flinch at the icy coldness. Sudden excruciating pain tore through him, shocking in its intensity. He staggered and nearly fell again, would have if Pleer Bon hadn’t had such a strong grip on him. He forced himself to stand as straight and tall as he could, biting his lip hard to keep from crying out. He’d be damned to the farthest and most horrible of the Nether Hells if he’d give this… this creature the satisfaction of seeing him beg for the pain to end, though he could scarcely breathe for the searing agony. He wished with all his being that he could slash at his tormentor with the sabre, but it took everything he had just to stay upright.
“No... you do not fear me, Rowan of Yaarl... you have courage and would defy me…” came the whispering voice at last, “Then it seems I have no power over you...” the worst of the pain mercifully faded as Pleer Bon removed his hands and stepped back a little.
Rowan spat blood and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He felt very, very ill and he could feel himself trembling and swaying as he gasped air into his aching lungs. He wondered what had made Pleer Bon attack him like this. Surely all of these creatures couldn’t be so bloodthirsty, could they? He couldn’t fight them all.
“Perhaps you need a firmer lesson, however…”
“No.”
“It is not you who decides such things,” Pleer Bon sneered and stepped forward again. The beautiful, razor sharp blade of a g’Hakken sabre at his belly stopped him in his tracks.
Pleer Bon gaped at the blade and the man who held it. He was barely able to stand, indeed would probably fall now without the support of the sword, but he was startlingly resolute and the blade barely wavered. He should not have been able to do anything at all.
“No.” Rowan repeated a little more firmly. He simply wasn’t going to meekly allow this creature to harm him again, not if he could help it anyway. His knee felt very unreliable beneath him and he shifted his weight a little, bringing the sabre up a bit more at the same time. That was better. Now it was aligned with the creature’s chest.
“You would not dare to raise a blade against me!” Pleer Bon seemed amazed at such an insult.
“No? But yet it seems that I have.”
Just get on with it, damn you, he thought. I can’t bloody stand like this forever waiting for you. He adjusted his stance again, careful not to lose his balance.
“Such defiance… but it will make it the worse for you.” Pleer Bon reached for him again.
Almost of its own volition the sabre slid forward and slightly upward between Pleer Bon’s ribs and deep into his chest, with all of Rowan’s remaining strength behind it. Rowan felt oddly disconnected as he watched the clumsy unbalanced thrust find its mark. He wondered if the creature’s heart was where he thought it was - where he hoped it was - or even if it had such vulnerability. He wondered what the others might do to him now too.
Pleer Bon stared in horror at the length of gleaming steel that transfixed his body. He shrieked once, a high despairing wail of pure terror, and shimmered into nothingness.
Rowan’s arm dropped heavily to his side, the end of the sabre hitting the flagstones with a ringing sound. He felt very ill indeed and there was no part of him that didn’t hurt, but the pain was at least more or less tolerable now and ebbing. He wasn’t surprised to find that he was still trembling, but his level of exhaustion was a bit worrying. At least the sabre had stopped him from falling again.
Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to be gone from this place and to never return. For a moment he almost considered it.
**********
There was a soft sibilance again as the beings spoke amongst themselves. They sounded a little agitated now, Rowan thought. Good. The bastards.
“Who are you?”
“I told you before. My name is Rowan of Yaarl…” Rowan replied, surprised and pleased to hear a note of something that sounded almost like respect in the beings’ voices.
“You are the first to climb the stairs and cross the bridge. You are the first to walk the maze and pass the direwolf.”
Rowan looked at the beings appraisingly.
“Well, you don’t exactly encourage visitors, do you?” he said.
They ignored his comment.
“How were you able to do this?”
Rowan shrugged.
“’Tisn’t so very hard to climb stairs or cross a bridge or walk a maze, and as for the direwolf… she was thirsty and I gave her water. While she was drinking I cut her collar off her.”
That really got their attention. There was a sudden horrified gasp that made Rowan smile.
“You… you have freed the direwolf?”
“Aye, I have.”
“But where is she now? Have you slain her?”
Rowan was pleased to see the others looking around with very worried looks on their smug faces.
“Certainly not. I didn’t free the poor beastie just to kill her. As for where she is, I’ve got no idea,” he said cheerfully, “She could be anywhere by now, I suppose.”
“No. She cannot cross the bridge.”
Rowan shrugged again. He was almost enjoying this.
“Then she’s somewhere on the island, and I can’t imagine her going back into the maze,” he laughed to himself as a thought came to him. “I’m not certain if the door to this, um, building is closed…”
His reward came as the beings stepped back a bit, clearly concerned at the idea of it. As well they might be. Rowan doubted that Rasa would be pleased to see those who’d imprisoned her and whipped her. He decided he really was enjoying this bit, but bloody Hells, he was tired.
“What is it you seek from me/us here...?” they said at last.
Rowan took the stone that Moss had given him from his pocket. He looked at it in his bloodied hands and drew strength from it, remembering why he’d come to this place. He thought about Zara and his little son and his gold and silver ring; and he thought about Fess and Cade and the troopers of Den Siddon. He thought about the good friends he’d had among the Guard of Plait and recalled the misery caused by the murderous Duke Rollo. He remembered with affection and gratitude the brave dappled-grey stallion that had saved his life at Messton and the gallant black one that had carried him home to Borl Quist when he’d been injured and desperately ill. He thought of Trill and Halcyon and his long journey to come to this place; he remembered the deep burning anger and, yes, sheer stubbornness that had sustained him on the way. Finally, he thought of Rose and Cris and Moss waiting for him on the other side of the stone bridge and his family and kin waiting for him at home. He wondered if he might be able to get back to them somehow, but he thought it very unlikely. He closed his hand tightly around the stone, took a deep breath and raised his head. He was in control of himself again and his voice was clear and steady.