Red Rowan: Book 3: Return of the Reluctant Hero

by Helen Gosney

  “How old are you, Rowan?”

  “Well, I’ll be thirty-eight by then. Too old, do you think?”

  Telli thought about it.

  “No, not necessarily. It’s been won by men of thirty-four and thirty-five before, and I’ll wager they weren’t as fit or as fast as you,” he said, trying to curb his sudden excitement. This was the lad who’d won the Trophy for Den Sorl after all. And then, dammit, won it for an unprecedented second time at the next competition ten years later.

  “Not so fast anymore,” Rowan said ruefully, “That’s why I thought I should train against some lads who know what they’re doing. I don’t want to make a complete idiot of myself, after all.”

  “Well, I doubt that you’ll do that, but of course you’re welcome to train here. I think some of the lads are out there now in the circles,” Telli said as he got to his feet again. “Don’t even think of mentioning those cursed reports, Fess. I’m coming with you.” He glared at Fess again, then laughed as they all headed out to the practice grounds.

  **********

  Several troopers were sparring in pairs with their sabres. They battled back and forth under the watchful eye of their Sword Master, Lieutenant Stefan Willson. Some of them are very good, Rowan thought automatically, but that lad needs to not drop his shoulder like that or… he shook his head as the trooper’s sabre clanged to the ground.

  “You know, I always forget how big you are compared to the rest of the good swordsmen going around, Rowan,” Fess said with a grin.

  Rowan looked surprised.

  “Big? I’m not bloody big. Gods, Fess, you’ve met my kin, and most of them ARE bloody big, but not me. You know they all call me ‘Rhys’s little lad’ at home. I’m not even damned tall, except to the g’Hakken.”

  “Look around you, laddie.”

  Puzzled, Rowan did just that. Fess was the only one taller than he was, and that was by a scant quarter of an inch. All of the Trophy squad and Telli himself, stood less than six feet, as virtually all top-class swordsmen do. Rowan towered over them at six feet three, and though he carried no excess weight he was more powerfully built than any of them.

  Rowan shook his head in bewilderment and then laughed.

  “’Tis all relative, I suppose,” he said, “At home I’m ‘little’ and to the g’Hakken I’m a bloody giant.”

  “You know, when Rowan was in the Silver Spurs, there was a fellow there who thought he’d grow too big, too tall, to be a top-class swordsman. Thought he’d get too slow and er, clumsy,” Telli smiled happily, “Wasn’t he wrong!”

  Telli thought Rowan would still be the Champion even if he was only five feet three, but certainly his strength and reach advantage did him no harm at all. And he most certainly wasn’t an ungainly blunderer like many men of his size. Telli had seldom seen a more beautiful swordsman to watch.

  Stefan heard their voices. He looked up and saluted his Commandant and Captain, wondering who the tall silver-haired Siannen with the neat braided beard was and what the man was doing here. He had the relaxed graceful stride of all foresters, but somehow the unmistakeable look of a warrior too.

  “Stefan, I don’t think you’ve met our friend,” Telli said, “He’d like to train with the men, with your permission. This is Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist.”

  Stefan stared at Telli for a moment, wide-eyed, and then at Rowan. He couldn’t believe it. This man was a legend in his own lifetime, the hero of Messton and Trill and the only man to have ever won the Champions’ Trophy twice. Red Rowan. And he wanted to train here…

  Stefan’s own father still told the story of having been bundled out of the Champions’ Trophy in the Round of Thirty-two by an unheralded eighteen-year-old Siannen from nowhere. Stefan had been there, remembered being devastated that his father had been beaten, but remembered also the astounding ability of a lad only six years older than himself.

  “Sir… I… I… er…” he dithered, as awestruck as the rawest recruit. He pulled himself together, hoping nobody had noticed his lapse. “It would be an honour if you’d join us, Sir,” he managed, as he saluted Rowan smartly.

  Rowan smiled at him. He’d have to have a quiet word about not saluting.

  “Not ‘Sir’ any more, Stefan. Just Rowan. I’m very grateful to you for letting me do this but, well, it won’t be too much of an honour, I’m afraid. I’m pretty fit, but a bit rusty with the sabre. A bit slower too, I think.”

  “When would you like to start, Sir? Er, I mean, er, er, Rowan. Now?”

  “Aye, now seems all right to me, if it’s all right with you. But don’t let me interrupt your schedules.”

  Bugger me! Stefan thought wildly. Red Rowan is concerned about interrupting my schedules. Red Rowan is concerned about…? My bloody schedules can go to the Nether Hells for all I care. He shook his head in amazement. The men who’d known Rowan had always said that he was an unpretentious, blunt, and down-to-earth character and it seemed it was true.

  “Do you want to use the circle, Sir… er… um, Rowan?” he said.

  Rowan thought about it. He didn’t like the confinement of the competition circle, the unnatural feel of it, but still… He nodded.

  “Aye, ‘twould be better, I suppose. ‘Tis a very long time since I’ve been in one, but… aye. Thank you.”

  “Don’t worry Rowan, we know it’s a bit smaller than your forest,” Fess laughed, “We won’t penalise you unless you end up a couple of feet outside it.”

  Rowan pulled a face at him.

  “Do you need a blade, Sir?” Stefan asked quickly.

  “No thanks, Stefan. I’ve brought one with me.”

  Stefan’s eyes widened further as a truly lovely sabre whispered into Rowan’s hands. The Champion’s Sabre it was, one of the legendary g’Hakken blades. Stefan, you bloody idiot, of course the man would have a blade, the Sword Master thought, mortified.

  Rowan smiled at him as he threw off his shirt and started to warm up. Telli and Stefan looked a bit shocked at his scars, but he was well used to that and simply ignored it.

  “I’m just a swordsman who needs some practice, the same as anybody else,” he said softly, “My first Captain told me as a lad, ‘Reputations mean nothing, ‘tis getting the job done that counts’ and he was right.” He laughed to himself as he noticed Telli’s startled face just behind Stefan’s.

  The Sword Master was trying not to stare at Rowan’s collection of scars. Of course he’d known the man had been injured, known he’d bear scars, but the long scar that ran around his body gave him pause. It must be the one he’d got at Trill, Stefan thought, aghast, but what the hell was that one shaped like a… a hand? No, it couldn’t be a hand… and was it a scar or a tattoo? It was a strange thing.

  His eyes moved to Rowan’s magnificent clan tattoo and then to his Champion’s Tattoo. Now that was truly unique: he was the only man to have ever won the Trophy twice and the only man to bear the Tattoo with crossed sabres as it had originally been designed, if the tales were true. He was the only Champion to have the Tattoo on the right side of his chest too: all of the others had theirs over their heart, but Rowan had already had his clan tattoo there, and so he and the g’Hakken dwarves had come up with a compromise. And of course on the right arm there was the very rare Weapons Master tattoo as well, with an awful scar running through it… Stefan pulled himself together again.

  “I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean to stare at you, but… I’ve not seen the Champion’s tattoo before,” he said quietly.

  Rowan smiled at him again.

  “No, I suppose there’s not too many of us still around to show the thing off, one way and another,” he said.

  “Is it true that … my apologies, Sir, I’m… I forgot myself.”

  “’Tis all right, Stefan. Ask me whatever you like, you have to try very hard to offend me. Even Fess can’t do it.”

  “Thank you, Sir. They say that the tattoo has one sabre to start with…”

  “Aye, it does. The dwarves say the original o
rganisers thought the defending Champion’d win it more often than they’ve managed to, so they designed the thing so that a second sabre could be added easily, like this…”

  Stefan looked at him again.

  “But what happens if you win it again…?”

  Rowan laughed.

  “No idea. That’s the dwarves’ worry, not mine. Besides, I think there’ll be quite a few folk trying to stop me. Who knows what’ll happen? I mightn’t even get past the first round.”

  Stefan had a feeling that was very unlikely.

  “I’d be honoured to be your partner now, Sir, if you’d…” he said.

  “Thank you. I truly am a bit rusty, but for the Gods’ sakes, don’t give me an easy time. I want to know if I’m going to make an idiot of myself. I do still practice with the thing sometimes, just not nearly as often I used to.”

  “Be warned, Stefan. He’ll kick your backside for you if you take it easy on him. He kicked mine anyway!” Fess laughed. He thought that anyone would be perfectly happy to be as good a swordsman as Rowan was right now, rusty or not. He knew he would be.

  The other troopers gathered around to watch the match. The men from the barracks had managed to keep their word, but in the amazing way of such things, the news had spread that Rowan was here and more men seemed to be drifting in to the practice ground all the time. Telli and Fess weren’t about to stop them and both turned a blind eye and a deaf ear to any wagering, just this once. Stefan was a very good swordsman, Sword Master after all, and he was fast and fit and well practiced with the blade. And Rowan? He was certainly fit and probably fast, if not as blindingly quick as he’d been. And who would disregard the dual Champion no matter how rusty he was. Anyway, they would soon see.

  The two men raised their sabres in formal salute and the practice bout began. They began cautiously, both men evaluating the other’s strengths and weaknesses. As they danced back and forth in the circle, both light-footed and graceful, Stefan could see that his opponent was a bit out of practice, as he’d said, and he wasn’t used to the competition circle. But Bloody Hells, he was good! Very focussed and very, very fast… had he said he’d lost a bit of speed? Unbelievable. How the hell could a big man like this be so bloody fast and agile? He’d run you ragged if he wasn’t confined to a damned circle. His balance and footwork were superb and he was so damned strong. Nothing like swinging an axe in a forest for building up strength and stamina… dammit! Keep your mind on the job, Stefan, he chided himself. He bloody nearly had you then.

  The match ended when Rowan and Stefan nicked each other on the upper arm at more or less the same time. Both were happy with themselves and they considered that the honours were about even. Stefan thought he had one up on his father and couldn’t wait to tell him, but it was obvious that Rowan had plenty more improvement in him and he wouldn’t like to be the man facing him in serious competition in a couple of months.

  “Thanks, Stefan. Maybe I’m not as bad as I thought. It’s hard to tell until you have a good opponent,” Rowan said with a smile, knowing the Sword Master hadn’t gone easily on him; had in fact been stretched a bit.

  “No, Sir, you’re not. You’re a bit rusty here and there, but… truly, if you were one of my lads I’d be putting you up for the Trophy right now.” Stefan hesitated, then said what he really wanted to say, “I’d be honoured if you’d join our squad, Sir, and I’d be honoured to help you if I can.”

  Rowan smiled at him.

  “Thank you. The honour, truly, would be mine. But please, you’ll have to stop calling me ‘Sir’. ‘Tis just Rowan.”

  He heard cheers and calls of “Red Rowan!” and “Welcome back, Sir!” from the troopers and realised suddenly how many of them were there. He could cope with it now though, much better than when he’d last heard it from almost the entire garrison like this, after the return from Messton. Everything seemed to bring him back to that, he mused. But he wasn’t fraught and exhausted now and nor was he in severe pain and struggling for every breath. He’d coped in the barracks last night and he’d cope now.

  He laughed at the surrounding men.

  “Not so red anymore, lads! But thank you. ‘Tis like coming back home.” And he realised to his surprise that it truly was.

  **********

  3. “The horse looks a bit like Mica…”

  Fess and Rowan walked back towards the Captain’s Cottage, both pleased with the practice bout. Rowan looked around himself curiously. He thought the place hadn’t changed much since he’d last seen it when he’d got back from Messton with his few ragged survivors. There’d been times when he’d almost come back, but until now… no. Rowan had simply not wanted to come back to Den Siddon until he really felt ready and it had taken a good while. He was still plagued by nightmares of Messton and Trill and their aftermath, sometimes he even thought he had nightmares about having nightmares, but now that he was back at his old garrison he felt a weight lift from him. Fess was right again, he thought ruefully, I should have come back before this. Well, I’m here now.

  “Fess, could you show me the Memorial, please” he said quietly.

  Fess looked at him carefully.

  “It’s around here, Rowan… are you all right to do this?”

  “Aye, more or less. Talking with the men has helped a lot. What’s happened has happened, and it wasn’t only me that it happened to.”

  Maybe not, Fess thought, but you were the one who had to bear the full bloody brunt of it. Truly, I think we’d all still be sitting waiting for Rollo all these years later if not for you.

  They stopped in front of the memorial to the fallen of the Battle of Messton-near-Edge. It was simple, but impressive. Twenty great slabs of granite, all rough and unfinished except for a single polished face on each stone, carved with the names of all of those who’d fallen at Messton when Duke Rollo of Plait had invaded Wirran nearly eight years before. The stones stood in a random, roughly circular sort of way and just past the centre was a bronze statue of a man with his horse, walking between two of the great slabs. They were a ragged, exhausted looking pair, both obviously injured; the horse had its muzzle leaning on the man’s shoulder as it lipped at his hair and there was something about the man that suggested he was in a lot of pain, but they were still unbowed and determined to face whatever was in front of them. Nothing was going to stop this man and his horse from getting where they wanted to be. It was heartbreaking and it was inspiring.

  “What do you think, Rowan?” Fess asked him quietly.

  Rowan stared at the memorial, bemused.

  “Tis stunning. ‘Tis…I just don’t have the words, but…” he shook his head slowly as he tried to take it all in.

  So many names, he thought bleakly. So many bloody names. What a waste. He blinked away the tears in his eyes as he walked slowly around the great slabs. Ah. There was poor brave Donal, who’d been killed at Trill. And Kendall Lorrissen, the old Commandant’s nephew, killed at Messton after following Rowan bravely nearly all day.

  “You’ve got the survivors here too,” he said in surprise as he rounded the horse’s rump and reached a single lighter coloured stone.

  “Aye, the men wanted it that way. And they wanted them all listed together like this too, not in their separate garrisons.”

  Rowan nodded. His eyes widened as he came to his own name: Rowan d’Rhys d’Rhuary a’Quint del’Quist SY Captain Den Siddon.

  “Fess, what the hell’s this? Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Fess shrugged. The Star of Yaarl was the highest military decoration, for outstanding courage and valour above and beyond the call of duty; it was a rare honour that transcended provincial boundaries, and one that Rowan had richly deserved.

  “Somehow the time just never seemed right, Rowan. You were so bloody ill that nobody thought you’d survive, and then when you finally did start to get better, you were pretty fraught, and… and overwhelmed and you were really struggling, so, well… I thought it’d only bring it all back to you too much…Rhys a
nd your Gran said the same.”

  Rowan stared at him, his memories crashing over him as they still sometimes did, all this time later: Messton, Trill, the truly horrible trek back home with his wounded men. Only one hundred and twenty-seven survivors from a force of two thousand men. Even now it broke his heart to think of it.

  “Aye, well, you’re right there, Fess. It does. But I was only doing my job, the same as every other man there…”

  “Rowan… you expected them to do their jobs, didn’t you?”

  “Aye, of course. And they did…”

  “Aye, of course they did. And you expected them to be recognised for it, as they have been?”

  “Aye…” Rowan frowned as he saw where Fess was going with this, “But…”

  “But nothing, Rowan. Accept it. There’s no arrogance in it. You did the job and did it bloody well even though you were badly hurt and nobody else could even get up off their backsides. You’ve earned this, why shouldn’t you be recognised for it as all these men were?”

  Rowan thought about it. He shrugged.

  “Maybe you’re right, Fess. I can’t really believe in it, and I truly don’t want it, but I suppose that doesn’t matter, does it? As you said last night, some poor bugger has to be the damned hero… I promise I’ll just shut up about it now…”

  He said nothing as he looked at the lists of names again, finding far too many that he knew and recognised. Finally he turned back to his friend.

  “What a waste it all was, Fess, truly. I mean no disrespect to all these men, but what a bloody waste, and all for nothing… one man’s greed and another man’s betrayal, and… all of these poor brave souls gone. They suffered so bloody much…”

  He shook his head slowly again as he looked at the impressive honours the other survivors had received too.

  “And you didn’t tell me about this either…” he put a finger next to the name: Fess Aaronson WSC Lieutenant Den Siddon. “A Wirran Silver Cross?”