Red Rowan: Book 3: Return of the Reluctant Hero

by Helen Gosney

  Ross looked at the horse’s proud, lovely head again and suddenly he realised what it was he’d missed before. The profile was distinctively dished, rather than straight as Soot’s handsome head was and there on Mica’s forehead was a dark smudge like a thumbprint. He stared in surprise.

  “He’s desert-bred! Bugger me, Mica’s desert-bred! I’ve heard that desert-bred greys don’t go lighter as they age, for some reason, and it looks like it’s true. But how the hell did you get hold of a desert-bred stallion? They say you’re more likely to be able to run off with one of the nomads’ women than one of their stallions, especially one with the Mark of the One like that,” Ross said, amazed.

  “Aye, well, I don’t know about that! But here he is…” Rowan laughed. “I’ll tell you the tale if you like, but truly, ‘tisn’t very exciting. ‘Twas just before I went to Den Siddon…”

  **********

  Rowan was on his way home to Sian. He had a month’s break before taking up his new position at Den Siddon and so he’d taken his leave of Den Farrar and headed for home. He was riding a superb black colt he’d just spent most of his lieutenant’s pay on, and a black troop mare was trotting happily beside him.

  His long-range plans were to breed horses in partnership with Griff, perhaps some crossing with heavy horses to make them more attractive to the physically very large foresters, and then to breed horses suitable for the Guard. His new black colt, Soot, was an investment in that future. He’d been lucky to find just the right horse at just the right stage of its training: that’s to say, handled gently but barely trained at all. The breeder hadn’t wanted to sell the best colt he’d bred for a very long time until he’d seen Rowan handle it and then, to his amazement, ride the feisty creature easily. The man had known exactly what he was seeing even if he couldn’t believe it. He’d heard rumours that there was a true Horse Master in the Wirran Guard, hadn’t really believed them, and here was the man himself casually riding the unbroken and unridden colt with no trouble at all. He couldn’t ask for a better person to take the colt and so the deal had been done.

  And now Rowan and Soot were making their way to Sian, troop mare Rook beside them. They weren’t in a hurry as Rowan didn’t want to overtax his inexperienced colt, but at the same time he wasn’t one to dawdle and so he rode Rook often too.

  The colt was a bit restless though, he thought. Soot had been perfectly happy until now, but something was worrying him. Rowan looked around. Dammit, he thought, just what we don’t need. A mass of dark cloud was boiling out of the west, one of the sudden storms that screamed out of the mountains at this time of the year to make a lot of fuss and noise and disappear almost as quickly as they came.

  He quickly found what shelter he could and soothed his nervous colt. Soot and Rook both stood calmly with Rowan stroking them and singing quietly to them as the full fury of the storm broke over them. He’d sung “The Felling of the Giant” and was halfway through the sixth verse of “The Adventures of Brother Biggun”, a rude and lewd song the colt particularly seemed to appreciate, when suddenly the youngster stiffened and snorted.

  “What’s wrong with you, laddie? ‘Tis only a bit of rain and wind and noise. Nothing for you to worry about, brave Soot,” Rowan said, stroking the colt’s face, “You’re all right…” he turned quickly as he heard a horse nicker behind him.

  There had to be at least fifty horses there: nervous, frightened, wet and bedraggled, but very fine horses indeed. Nomads’ horses, by the tassels on their halters. Bugger me, Rowan thought in amazement, where the hell has this lot come from? He’d heard nothing over the sounds of the storm. Mind you, that wasn’t surprising, with thunder rolling and lightning flashing almost right over their heads. The horses crowded around him and he calmed them as best he could as the storm raged around them for nearly an hour and then stopped as suddenly as it had begun.

  And now what am I going to do with them, he wondered as he looked around. The very heavy rain had all but obliterated their tracks and the ground was hard and rocky, but he thought he might be able to follow them, with a bit of luck. The Siannen hunters had taught him a hell of a lot when he was a lad and he hadn’t forgotten it.

  “Come on, you lot. Let’s see if we can find your owners. I’m sure they’ll be looking for you,” he said as he set off to find the nomads, riding Rook and with Soot and the lost horses cantering happily beside him. He laughed as his own colt and a lovely darkly dappled one played together as they strode along. He’d always liked dappled greys and this youngster was superb. Suddenly his sharp ears picked up an odd cadence of hoof beats among all the others. What the hell was that, he wondered, and which horse was…? He stared around him and realised it was Soot’s new friend, the dappled grey.

  The colt was moving in an oddly effortless gait that was very smooth and deceptively fast, but Rowan couldn’t work out just exactly what it was. Certainly it was nothing he’d ever seen before.

  He watched the colt carefully, wondering if he might ride it himself, but at that moment he glanced up and saw that he’d found the nomads, or rather the nomads had found him. Three of them crested a rise to see him following the trail about half a mile away, riding a troop horse, with a very fine black colt and the rest of their own horses following him. He looked up, saw them, waved, then cantered up to them, the other horses surging around him.

  They stared at Rowan in astonishment as he came up to them.

  **********

  “You have found the rest of our horses…” one of them said carefully. The nomads were darkly handsome men in their early to mid twenties, with jutting beaks of noses and flashing dark eyes. Rowan wondered if they might perhaps be brothers.

  “Aye, sort of… to be truthful, they found me,” Rowan smiled at the one who’d spoken, “Soot and Rook and I were sheltering back there quite a way and your horses came and joined us when the storm was at its worst. They’re all right though, none of them are hurt.”

  The nomad stared at him again, stared at the way the horses were standing around him perfectly happily. A grey colt stretched its nose towards the stranger and snuffled at his hand.

  “They came to you through the storm? All that way?” a second nomad said.

  Rowan nodded. He had no idea how far the horses had come, but he’d been backtracking them for nearly five miles. The nomad started to say something else, when a second group cantered up to them.

  An older man, handsome and with the same proud beak of a nose as the others, said something to the first group in their own tongue. Like many foresters, Rowan was fluent in eight languages and could understand several more if people didn’t speak too quickly, but all he could catch were the words ‘stranger’, ‘horses’ and ‘storm’ as the nomads spoke together. That didn’t tell him anything he didn’t already know. The older man looked at him, puzzled.

  “I am Ahleran, headman of the B’Ni tribe,” he said in lightly accented Common, “I thank you for finding our horses. They scattered when the thunder and lightning frightened them. We’ve found the rest, but my sons say that these came to you in the storm. How is this possible?”

  “I’m Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist of the Forest Giant and g’Hakken clans and Lieutenant of Den Farrar garrison, travelling to Sian,” Rowan introduced himself quickly, knowing that the older nomads could be nearly as prickly as dwarves and foresters about politeness. “As for the horses, I can only tell you that they came out of the storm and joined me and my two as we sheltered about four and a half miles back. I’m glad I can return them to you, they’re fine horses.” He absently pushed away the muzzle of the grey colt that had decided to investigate his long braid.

  Ahleran stared at him again, still puzzled, but thinking hard.

  “That colt… the grey… do you think you could ride him?” he said slowly.

  The man’s sons stared at him in shock, but they said nothing.

  “This colt?” Rowan said, indicating the lovely darkly dappled grey that was lipping at his hair again. The one
with the odd gait that’d so intrigued him. “Aye, probably. Why?”

  Ahleran ignored the question.

  “Show me,” he said quietly.

  Rowan shrugged. This might be his chance to find out what the horse’s odd gait was. He patted Rook and dismounted. Then he turned to the grey, patted it as well, murmured something to it, and vaulted lightly onto the horse’s bare back. The colt stiffened, then reared and danced on its hind legs. Rowan simply grabbed a handful of its long black and silver mane and leaned forward to force it down. He stroked the grey’s neck and spoke softly to it. The colt pranced a bit, tossing its proud beautiful head, and then it trotted forward.

  Gods, this is a good horse, Rowan thought. A bit smaller than Soot, but just as good and there’s not many I’d say that about. Lovely smooth paces… still haven’t found that odd gait yet, but I wish I could buy him too. But he knew that the colt would cost far more than he could pay right now. And it had the dark smudge on its forehead that was said to be the thumbprint of the Great One, so he knew the nomads would value it even more highly. No, he’d have to save up again.

  The colt cantered in a big figure-of-eight as if it’d been doing it all its life and came to a halt in front of the nomad headman. Rowan slid down from the horse reluctantly and stroked its glossy neck again, his curiosity still unsatisfied. He’d have to think of a polite way to ask.

  “He’s a lovely colt,” he said, mystified by the stares of the nomads. They prided themselves on how wonderful their horses were to ride and this one was certainly that, if surprisingly inexperienced. And he was in his Guard uniform, so they surely knew that he’d be able to ride well. No, he was missing something here.

  Ahleran nodded.

  “He is desert-bred,” he said, “We bought a stallion and some mares from our desert cousins to improve our own herds. Some of the mares were already in foal and this colt is one of those foals. He is superb, as you can see. Feisty and spirited as all desert-breds are, but easy to handle… we can do anything with him…” the headman sighed, “… anything but ride him. Nobody has ever ridden him before now.”

  Rowan stared up at him. That couldn’t be right. The nomads could ride anything, he’d always thought. They were famous for their horsemanship and the quality of their horses, and rightfully so.

  “I don’t understand…” he said.

  “The colt will simply not allow himself to be ridden. He fights like a demon and none can stay on his back. We fear if we breed him, his offspring will be unrideable too… and of course we cannot sell a horse that will not be ridden… it’s why he has become a… problem for us now. It’s not that we haven’t tried to ride him, but…”

  “But surely I’m not the only one who’s…?” Rowan looked up at the headman quizzically. As he thought about it he realised that in fact he likely was. He was well experienced in riding unbroken horses. This one, like Soot, was easy enough to handle, but feisty and spirited too. Just as a horse should be, he’d always thought. But it had had even less idea than Soot of what it should do with a rider on its back, especially when that rider was Rowan.

  Ahleran shrugged and looked at the puzzled young man standing between the lovely dappled grey and his own superb black colt. He wore the uniform of the Wirran Guard but he was obviously a Siannen forester. And what had he said about being of the g’Hakken? No, he must have misheard that, the nomad thought. Forester and Guardsman together were a very strange combination, and the addition of g’Hakken was… well, almost unthinkable. All the same, and despite the fact that he’d proved to be as good a horseman as any nomad, it was equally obvious that he simply didn’t understand. Perhaps he could be made to see, though.

  “Bishan, ride this colt for us now,” he said.

  A lean, muscular man stepped forward, one of the original three who’d found Rowan and the first one who’d spoken to him. His face was unreadable.

  “Yes, Father,” he said. He took a deep breath and vaulted onto the horse’s back as Rowan had. The colt reared again and bucked violently several times, finishing with a vicious twist and Bishan landed hard on the ground.

  “Kron, ride the colt now,” the headman said.

  A second, slightly younger, man stepped forward.

  “Yes, Father,” he said. He too landed on the ground with a hard thud in less time than it takes to tell.

  “Nessun…” the headman began.

  “No, wait. Please don’t… I can see what you say is true,” Rowan said quickly.

  “Bishan and Kron are the best horsemen we have, and I don’t say it because they are my sons,” the headman said, frowning a little, “But this colt will not allow them to ride him … you are the only one who has ever ridden him…”

  “Ride him again, please,” Ahleran said. Another unthinkable thought was forming in his mind.

  Rowan raised an eyebrow, but vaulted onto the grey’s back again. The horse pranced a couple of times and then set off in a smooth trot as before.

  “Come on, laddie,” Rowan said to the horse quietly, “Let’s show him properly. You’re no demon and you’re no more bloody unrideable than Soot is.” He nudged the colt gently with his heels.

  The grey sprang forward into a full gallop, flying effortlessly across the ground. It took a fallen log in its stride, then another, and leapt across a little creek as if it wasn’t there.

  Gods, this horse is bloody fast, Rowan thought. Brave too, he never hesitated to jump. He turned the colt around and started back the way he’d come. The grey trotted forward, its stride smooth and relaxed. Rowan leaned forward a little and squeezed the colt very carefully with his knees. The grey tossed its head and lengthened its stride, as the trot became… not a smooth canter as expected, but something else. It felt like nothing Rowan had ever experienced on a horse – neither a trot nor a canter, and certainly not a gallop, but something in between them all: astonishingly smooth and surprisingly fast too.

  He tried to work out just what it was and leaned over a little to see if he could see for himself, but the unridden colt jibbed at the change of weight on its back. Rowan hastily sat back where he should have been and stroked the grey’s neck. Reassured, it trotted for a few strides and then resumed its odd gait.

  Just enjoy it, Rowan thought, I’ve never known anything so smooth and comfortable to ride. But what the hell is it?

  He stopped the colt beside the gaping nomads. Truly, Rowan thought, you’d think they’ve never seen anyone ride a bloody horse before. Of course they’d said that they hadn’t seen anyone ride this particular one, and he believed them. Still, he was more concerned with what he’d just experienced himself.

  “What was that?” he said as politely as he could, but he knew it hadn’t come out very graciously.

  “The colt is gaited…” the headman said slowly. Almost reluctantly, Rowan thought. “We’d hoped to introduce it back into our herds, but…” Ahleran shook his head.

  “What do you mean, ‘gaited’?” Rowan asked curiously.

  The nomad shrugged.

  “Every so often the trait crops up in the desert-bred horses… it’s a natural gait that’s very comfortable to ride, very comfortable for the horse too, and they can keep it up for hours if need be. It’s surprisingly fast and it’s a wonderful gait for travelling long distances, so you can see why it’s prized so highly among us.”

  Rowan was intrigued. He and the troopers did their share of travelling long distances too.

  “Does it breed true? You said it’s not in your herds now…”

  “Not all of a gaited stallion’s progeny will be gaited… perhaps half, maybe a bit less. And over the generations it seems to become less, until it disappears again.” Ahleran shook his head. “We were delighted when this grey showed the gait as he played beside his dam. Our desert brethren wouldn’t have parted with the mare if they’d known she carried a gaited colt.”

  “But what is it? Can it be taught to other horses?”

  Ahleran sighed.

  “We’
ve never managed to, not really. And as for what it is…” he shrugged again, “…It’s difficult to say, exactly. Some think the horse canters in front and trots behind, but…”

  Rowan tried to picture it, but imagination failed him. He’d have to try and see the colt running free again and hope he might somehow work it out for himself… he’d already decided he was going to try and teach Soot this wonderful floating gait. The black colt had lovely smooth paces, but this was even better. Amazing. And maybe he could train some of the troop horses at his new garrison, if he had the time… Gods, he’d run himself ragged with all that and the damned Trophy coming up again in a couple of years’ time, to say nothing of his usual Guard duties.

  “How is it you can ride this horse when none here can?” Ahleran asked, though the second unthinkable, wonderful thought was now fully formed in his mind. Impossible as it was, it had to be the truth. It was simply the only explanation. And maybe it might help with the problem of the superb, unrideable colt that they didn’t dare to breed or even sell – if they wanted to keep their reputation for fine riding horses intact.

  Rowan hesitated. A Whisperer wasn’t always welcome, if one believed the old tales about them spiriting away one’s beasts in the night… and a hell of a lot of folk did.

  “I don’t know what to say to you…” he said as he stroked the grey colt’s face, calming it without thinking about it.

  “You have the Gift. You are a Singer… that’s why the horses went to you in the storm,” the headman said softly.

  Rowan nodded reluctantly. He was surprised the horses had come to him from such a distance, but they undeniably had.