by Helen Gosney
The recruits’ eyes widened and they shuffled uneasily. They’d all heard the tales that said Red Rowan was at his most dangerous and unpredictable when he seemed calm and very still.
“Umm… no, before that, Sir,” Costa managed, “You… you said the trolls have a… er… a, a something or other, Sir. Before you put the poles down, Sir.”
Rowan frowned slightly as he thought about what he’d said. His face cleared suddenly and he laughed.
“Oh, you mean the…?” he said the incomprehensible word again. “My apologies, lads, I forgot for a moment that you mightn’t know much Trollish.” Or more likely, any at all, he thought as he saw their astounded faces. “’Tis a very handy language at times, lads, even if ‘tis bloody hard on the throat… but never mind that now. It means, um…” he thought about it. There wasn’t really an easy translation into Wirran. “It literally means ‘the place for those who have no honour in the game’. At home in Sian we used to call it the ‘Sinners’ Bin’. ‘Tis where the naughty lads who break the rules go. A bit like the dungeon here in the garrison, only not as bloody dank and there’s no rats. There are also no poor innocent buggers in the Bin, only bloody fools who’re letting their team down and who should be ashamed to show their faces in public.”
He smiled to himself as he saw the usual shock at his bluntness written all over the recruits’ faces, followed by thoughtful expressions and a few nods and muffled words of agreement as comprehension dawned. You’re learning, lads, he thought cheerfully, even if you did think a bloody tree-watching civilian had nothing worthwhile to teach you.
“And that being the case, I suppose we’d better settle on some rules, hadn’t we?” Rowan thought quickly. Glyn had always said the trolls made up the rules as they went along and if it was good enough for trolls to do it, it was good enough for him. “The main one is no-one is to be deliberately hurting anyone else. Of course, accidents do happen, but anyone who deliberately kicks somebody or trips them up gets five minutes in the Bin. A punch or headbutt is worth ten minutes. Anything below the belt, um… out for the rest of the game and fifty pressups. Dangerous tackling, the same. Eye gouging and deliberately breaking bones gets you out of the game for the next two months and running laps of the horseyards while the rest of us play. Anything else… I’ll think of something if it happens. Please try not to stretch my inventiveness too far.”
He was pleased to see the recruits nodding seriously.
“Now, are we all ready this time? Good. Let’s get on with it!”
He tossed the red and blue ball up and leapt back as the lads galloped in to claim it. Some were quite speedy, he noted happily. Not so good at jumping, though. Well, that wasn’t hard to fix. Tackling wasn’t a strong point for most of them either, and of course they hadn’t had time to work out any tactics yet. At least they were going about it with a bit of enthusiasm, he thought. They probably didn’t look on it as the very good exercise that it was. Too many of them running around at once of course, he’d have to think of something… oh, dear. We can’t have that.
His piercingly loud whistle brought the game to a sudden, startled halt. Rowan frowned at a lad who’d kicked another’s shins well away from play and the young fellow jumped as if he’d been kicked himself. A quick jerk of Rowan’s head in the direction of the Sinners’ Bin had the miscreant hurrying off the field in disgrace. The game resumed and a few minutes later one of the recruits wobbled to his feet after a heavy but legal tackle and stood doubled over, gasping for breath.
“Are you all right, Joss? Nothing broken?” Rowan asked him quickly as the game surged around them. He gave the ball a swift kick when it came too close to them, much to the surprise of the other players. They were even more surprised when it almost went into the goal.
Joss nodded. “I’m… all right, Sir… just… winded.”
“Good lad, you’re the referee for a bit then, when you get your breath back. Can you whistle?” At the young fellow’s nod, Rowan smiled and said, “Just be careful they don’t run over the top of you. Toss them out of the game if they do. Let me see… fifteen minutes for roughing up the referee, I think, and sixty – no, seventy press-ups.”
“Aye, Sir,” Joss managed, thinking he’d need eyes in the back of his head.
“Don’t fret yourself, Joss. Just do the best you can and let me know when you feel ready to play again,” Rowan smiled at him and made sure he was breathing properly and unhurt, if a bit shaken up. Then he watched the chaos around them carefully for a moment before slipping into the middle of it.
Rowan wasn’t entirely sure which team he was meant to be on, but it didn’t matter. Some of the lads would back him up and the rest would try to stop him; it would work itself out. He intercepted a pass and headed off for the goal.
“Bloody Hells, Sir!” Ulrich gasped as Rowan ran away from him as if he was standing still, skipped through a wall of tacklers and scored as if the defenders simply weren’t there. “You’ve played this before!”
Rowan grinned at him as the rest of the players took the opportunity for a bit of a breather. In a very short time the recruits had found this silver-haired Siannen could run rings around them and outjump them and he was damned hard to bring down into the bargain. They suspected he was probably a hell of a good tackler too.
“Aye, Ulrich, I have. Not for quite a while though. The last time was with a clan of trolls up in the north, the Stoneforest clan. I stayed with them over winter six or seven years ago, and I was bruised for bloody months from playing scrambleball,” he thought for a moment, “We only had teams of four or five though, most of the time. Ours here are much too big, too unwieldy…”
“We could… er…” Ulrich hesitated.
“Out with it, lad. I do expect basic politeness, but other than that I truly am almost unoffendable. I’ll let you know if I’m not happy with you, never fear,” Rowan grinned at him again. This lad had definite promise, he thought. And he was reasonably fit as well.
“Aye, Sir,” Ulrich grinned back at him. Truly, he thought, this man was a revelation. He’d made it his business to find out more about him, which wasn’t hard to do in Den Siddon, and what he’d learned had left him awestruck. But the man himself was so… down-to-earth, so normal. And terrifyingly fit and athletic. Bloody good with a horse too, and surprisingly patient with those who weren’t, as the recruits had found out yesterday afternoon. Could he really be a Horse Master, as they said? Ulrich hoped he might somehow manage to see Rowan sparring in the circles too. Folk said he was simply stunning and near as dammit unbeatable, even though he’d barely begun training with the Trophy squad. “What about… um… seven in a team, Sir? Twelve teams?” He looked a bit doubtful as he thought about it a bit more.
“I think you’re on the right track, Ulrich, but…’tis still too many all rattling about at once…” Rowan smiled suddenly. “How about two lots of teams, six teams with seven players that play scrambleball one week, and the other six teams of seven play the next week? Or perhaps later in the same week? Or maybe, um… three or four teams of seven at a time? Ah, dammit, I’m confusing myself…” he shook his head, “No, I’ll have to think about it a bit more tonight. You and the lads can too, and tell me what you think.”
“But what would the ones who aren’t playing do, Sir?”
Rowan shrugged.
“There’s always the battlements or the horseyards to run around. Or maybe we’ll start doing gymnastics. I suppose Sergeant Benni might referee the game while I’m chasing the other lot around, he can be careful of his knee. Anyway, I’m sure I’ll think of something.” He smiled at the recruit beside him.
“Aye, Sir, I’m sure you will,” Ulrich laughed.
**********
10. “Ribbons”
The recruits were surprisingly keen to play scrambleball again, in spite of their bruises and tired bodies. Rowan went into the city and returned with a couple of balls, as well as a new one for Fess’s sons. He also produced a carved wooden whistle for t
hose who couldn’t whistle very well but were called on to referee. When he came to the fitness class a couple of days later with a bundle of multicoloured ribbons over his arm, courtesy of Sergeant Merrill and redolent of wormwood and lavender, the recruits looked at him a bit dubiously. They were quickly realising that he did nothing without a good reason, but ribbons? And red, blue, green, turquoise, yellow, light blue, violet, white, black, orange, grey, dark green and maroon and, horror of horrors, virulent pink ribbons at that.
Rowan tried not to laugh as he looked at the worried and very hesitant faces of the recruits and tried not to sneeze as he shook out the last vestiges of the ancient herbs.
“Don’t fret yourselves, lads,” he said, “I thought we could use these so we’ll know who belongs on whose team…”
“But, Sir… ribbons?” one of the recruits spoke up earnestly. They were learning that Rowan welcomed their honest queries, no matter how daft they might seem, but he didn’t take kindly to timewasters, smartmouths and slackers. Just as he’d said himself. Mind you, nobody else in the Guard did either.
“Aye, ribbons, Kyle,” Rowan smiled at him, “Not for your hair though, unless you’re particularly keen on that idea… no, on your arms or wrists, I thought. Unless anyone’s got a better suggestion…?” He looked around hopefully. “No? Arms ‘tis then.” He started to cut the ribbons into lengths with a very sharp and very beautiful dagger, carefully keeping the various colours separate.
There was a sudden horrified intake of breath from several of the lads who’d realised that these must be the ribbons Costa and Tyne had been so puzzled about since going with Rowan to the Supply Sergeant.
“What’s wrong, lads?” Rowan asked, curious at their appalled faces.
“You’re… er… you’re cutting the, the ribbons, Sir… you’re cutting them up…” a stocky lad named Amiet managed. He was shocked at Rowan casually cutting up Guard property, shocked too that he was using what had to be one of his Champion’s Knives to do it.
Of course Amiet knew the stories of Rowan’s refusing another sabre when he won the Champions’ Trophy for the second time, knew the g’Hakken had made an axe for his father and a pair of daggers for Rowan, but… surely they weren’t meant to actually be used, were they? It felt… sacrilegious, somehow. Mind you, it was said his father used the axe every day in the forest, and these lovely daggers that their new instructor always carried and often used simply couldn’t be anything else but the Trophy Knives. Amiet tried desperately not to seem too taken aback.
“Aye. Well, you’ll fall over them if I don’t,” Rowan smiled at him as he realised what the problem probably was, “Don’t fret, Amiet, they’ve been in the damned stores for at least twelve years that I know of, likely longer, and they’ve not been used in all that time. ‘Tis a wonder the bloody moths haven’t eaten the cursed things, even with all this stinking wormwood. But if Captain Fess ever decides he wants the horses’ manes prettied up for something, I’ll just have to go to the market and get some more.” He thought it was extremely unlikely. Braiding the troop horses’ manes was one thing, and often done, but braiding them with ribbons was quite another and would probably happen when cows flew. And not even then, with these appalling pink ones. The Gods only knew what they’d been dyed with. “In the meantime, you’re Guardsmen and you’re entitled to use Guard equipment, no? And ‘tis only what we’re doing, after all.”
He smiled as the recruits looked happier about the whole business.
“Now, lads, I think we’ll try it with teams of seven this time. That’ll give you somebody to grab the ball initially, a runner to head off with it and a guard to go with him and protect him a bit, and give him someone to offload the ball to if need be,” Rowan said, pleased to see the recruits nodding as they worked it out, “And then you’ll have a couple of sort of roving tacklers to stop the other buggers getting through, and two defenders to lurk up around the goal as a rear guard. Of course there’s nothing stopping you passing it to any of them to put in the goal if they’re clear. What do you think?” he looked around hopefully.
The recruits nodded enthusiastically, intrigued by the novel idea of using defenders as goal scorers too.
Rowan smiled at them again.
“Well, we can try it and see, can’t we? There’ll still be far too many folk running around, but we’ll worry about that later. There’s nothing to say that we can’t change things to suit ourselves if it doesn’t work… the trolls do that all the damned time. Great innovators, trolls are. Sometimes they use two goals, and once up north we had eight teams of seven and four goals. ‘Twas bloody mayhem,” he laughed at the memory.
It had been an experimental game when several groups of visiting trolls had arrived at the Stoneforest trollhall at the same time. Somehow they’d heard there was a Bridge Troll overwintering there, and a bit of snow hadn’t stopped them coming to pay their respects. Naturally there’d been a game of scrambleball organised to mark the occasion, and what better chance for a little creativity? Rowan and his teammates had tried to protect the little ratcatcher, Cris, as best they could, but eventually they’d all been flattened in the general melee; the brave little man had had a magnificent black eye and Rowan had dislocated a shoulder. The other one this time. The trolls had been mortified that their new friends had been hurt, but the men were unoffended and philosophical. If they played games with trolls, they reasoned, then they must expect a few bruises. After all, they’d gone out of their way to convince their team mates that they weren’t delicate flowers. Really, it was an honour that the trolls generally forgot that the men weren’t… well, trolls.
“So, we’ll have twelve teams of seven for this time, if you can just reorganise yourselves a bit, and we’ve got… um… fourteen colours,” Rowan continued thoughtfully, “Hmm, I suppose I should give you a bit of a sporting chance… can I have one lad from each team, please, and you can get your colours from a lucky dip…” the recruits looked at him blankly. “… Not heard of them? Dear Gods, you poor bloody Wirrans must lead sheltered lives. Well, you’ll see… Oh, and the colours are non-returnable and non-exchangeable.” He smiled again. “I’m afraid if you get this particularly horrible shade of pink, that’s your team’s colour. I’d just advise you to lay a few extra heavy tackles on any ignorant buggers who make fun of you because of it.”
Of course he could simply discard the offending pink ribbons, but he thought it’d do the youngsters good to have a bit of excitement in their ordered lives.
Twelve recruits stepped forward nervously.
“Don’t look so worried, lads. All you have to do… is…”
The ribbons glowed in the sunlight as he tossed one of each colour into the box they used as a goal. Rowan had whitewashed it so that it was easier to see in the fray. “Then you close your eyes, reach in and grab a ribbon. Jumble them up a bit if you want to, thus…” he followed his own instructions and took the ribbon that was at the bottom of the pile, laughing as he saw that it was red. How bloody appropriate, he thought as he tossed it back and mixed the ribbons up again. “There, see, ‘tis easy. No nasty surprises, I promise. No mousetraps in the bottom of the box. And no horrible big black hairy spiders either. Away you go now.”
One by one the lads fished in the box, hoping desperately that they wouldn’t get the pink ribbon. It was very, very pink and they knew their team mates would be most upset with them if they did. But no, their luck held and the dreaded pink and one other remained in the bottom of the box.
“What about the referee, Sir?” somebody piped up from the safety of his fellows.
Rowan sighed.
“Dammit, I suppose I’d better have a bloody ribbon too.”
He reached into the box without looking, took the bottom ribbon again and laughed when he saw it was… red.
“’Tis no getting away from the damned thing!” he chuckled, “All right, lads, it seems ‘tis red for the referee.”
They all busied themselves tying the ribbons onto each oth
er’s biceps, surprised at how much easier it was to see just who was who, and soon they were ready to start.
“Next week we’ll have six teams playing on one day, and the other six teams later in the week, I think, unless any of you’ve got a better idea. No? Speak up if you have,” Rowan looked at them hopefully.
“No, Sir,” several lads said.
“We thought about it like you said, Sir, but we think that’d be the best way to do it. We thought about teams of, say, five or six, but then there’s too many of them,” Ulrich said.
Rowan nodded.
“Aye, that’s what I thought too. There’ll still be too many like this, I imagine, but we can try it and see how it goes. I’ll have to see how we can get a couple more referees too, I think, maybe rearrange ourselves a bit…” Or perhaps rope in some of the older recruits or Cadets who aren’t doing anything, he thought, “But in the meantime Sergeant Benni will referee next week while the other half are with me, running or doing gymnastics or whatever it turns out to be, so please be careful with him. He’s not so spry with his bad knee,” Rowan smiled at them as they nodded seriously. He threw up the ball and leapt backwards as the lads charged in for it. Already they were better organised than they’d been and a couple of teams seemed to have a tentative plan in place.
**********
11. “As brave as a lion…”
A week or so later several of the new recruits found out the hard way that it was possible to offend Rowan, even if it wasn’t generally easy to do.
They’d found a scrawny kitten somewhere and were tormenting it. The poor little creature was backed into a corner, back arched and scruffy fur fluffed as much as it could, hissing defiance at the half a dozen lads who were poking at it with sticks and throwing stones at it.
