Red Rowan: Book 3: Return of the Reluctant Hero

by Helen Gosney

  In spite of his thinning grey hair, Hibbon was as fit and sprightly as ever. He was the man who’d trained an unknown eighteen-year-old Rowan to win his first Trophy so long ago and helped out with the final phases of his training after Johan had died unexpectedly quite close to Rowan’s second Trophy. He and Telli sat in Telli’s office and gossiped about mutual acquaintances over a glass of wine, as old friends do.

  “The lads on the Gate knew the dog…” Hibbon said happily, touching his little garrison’s emblem of the sleeping dog for a moment. “I always thought young Rowan would make folk sit up and take notice of it.”

  Telli laughed. The days of ignorance about it had long gone.

  “Aye, well, he certainly did that, didn’t he?”

  “Aye, he did. Mind you, there’s a few Den Sorl men making their mark now. There’s you and young Fess, and Trav’s doing well at Den Ree too.”

  “Aye, he is too. Well, we all do our best, I suppose,” Telli smiled at his old friend.

  “And speaking of that, what the hell’s going on with our lad Rowan? They’ve been saying for a while that he’s hurt his hands and broken his foot, hasn’t been to enough lead-up tournaments… and I’ve heard a lot of even worse rumours lately. Well, you know what it’s like. There’s so many damned rumours flying about, you don’t know what to bloody believe. And now I’ve got your cursed dispatch asking me to come and help out. Of course I don’t mind doing whatever I can to help him, but…” Hibbon said, trying not to sound too concerned. He was, though. It was incredible that Rowan was contesting his third Trophy, and Hibbon’d hate to see his chances ruined by injury. Mind you, it’d take a hell of an injury to stop the stubborn young bugger.

  Telli shook his head slowly. He’d thought it best not to be too specific in his letter to Hibbon, thought it best to explain the situation in person. There were more than enough damned rumours doing the rounds since Rowan’s accident. Though the men of the garrison had kept their mouths firmly shut about it, it was easy for anyone to see that Rowan wasn’t going on any more training runs and his hobbling visits to the town hadn’t escaped notice either. Mind you, his recovery had been amazing and he was doing more each day. Still, it’d be a while before he was back to full training.

  “Ah… well, he did have a bit of a setback, Hibbon… and, er, he didn’t want to, um, damage anyone else’s chances…” he told the shocked Sword Master what had happened, trying not to make too much of it. Of course Hibbon wasn’t fooled.

  “A bit of a bloody setback? Great Beldar’s breeks! So he burnt his hands and broke his foot in a bloody barn fire – and what the hell he was DOING in a bloody barn fire in the first place, I’d like to know! But he got all that right and then he fell down the damned barracks stairs, tore his ankle up and knocked himself rotten? Walking in his sleep after some cursed bloody Plaiten came and tried to murder him, you said?”

  “Aye, that’s about the strength of it.”

  “Poor brave lad. He’s paid a hell of a price for saving all those men at Messton, and it seems he’s still paying it,” Hibbon shook his head, “It doesn’t seem bloody right.”

  He looked thoughtful for a moment, then glared at Telli as if it was somehow all his fault.

  “And you call all that a bit of a bloody setback? What the hell would be a fraggin disaster, then, Telli?” he said fiercely.

  Telli shrugged.

  “I don’t know. No, don’t look at me like that, Hibbon. Look, all I can tell you is that Rowan’s back in light training, taking it carefully still, but…. he’s got a sort of special lightweight brace for his ankle that seems to help a lot. And Stefan Willson, our Sword Master here, is happy with him.”

  “Ah. He’s a very good swordsman, is young Stefan. He’ll do well in the Trophy himself,” Hibbon said judiciously, “Could go close to winning it.”

  “Aye, he will go close, I think.”

  “… And you say he’s happy with how Rowan’s going?”

  “Aye, he is. He thought… well, we all thought, that that’d be the end of it, but we were all wrong. Time’s going to be the damned problem of course, but Rowan’s working really hard within his limitations and I’ve never seen him so bloody determined to win the damned thing. But he’s worried he’s taking up too much of Stefan’s attention now, and…”

  “… And he doesn’t want Stefan to spend all his time with him and ruin his own chances in the Trophy,” Hibbon finished the sentence thoughtfully. He knew Rowan well and wasn’t surprised by this at all. “But you think Rowan can still compete?”

  “Well, Rowan thinks he can still compete. And I think if the man himself says that, then it’s probably right. As for me? Well, I’m just hoping he can. And I’m hoping we can help him to do it,” Telli said.

  Hibbon nodded.

  “Well, there’s only one way to get an idea, I suppose. Will he be down at the circles, do you think?”

  “Aye, I think so. Let’s go and have a look.”

  “He always was a stubborn young bugger, Telli,” Hibbon said slowly.

  “Always has been, old friend, and always will be,” Telli smiled at him again, “Anyway, come and see for yourself how he is.”

  “And what about match fitness, Telli? They say he’s only been to the one lead-up…? And cancelled any others…?” Hibbon asked as they headed out to the circles.

  “Aye, well, it’s too soon after the fall for him to be going to any more and the healers have managed to convince him to listen to them for once. He’s very bloody fit though and he’s not worried about it, says his reputation will finally be of some use to him.”

  “Ha! He’s probably right there too. And he could probably run most of the other lads ragged even with a few, er, setbacks.”

  “Fess says he could run them ragged even with a wooden leg,” Telli chuckled.

  Hibbon managed a smile. He thought Fess was probably right and certainly Rowan would give it a hell of a good try.

  “So, is there anything else you’ve not told me?” he said slowly.

  “No, not really. Nothing you can’t learn for yourself when you’ve seen Rowan, anyway,” Telli replied blithely.

  Hibbon glared at him again for a moment, but his face cleared as they got closer to the outdoor circles. There were a lot of men there sparring: a lot of the Trophy contestants were happy to train with the other men like this as it gave them a bit more experience of their opponents. Equally, of course, some were happy to watch the others but reluctant to show their own skills off just yet and they sparred in private though they generally did the rest of their training with the main group.

  “What the hell’s that bloody cat doing over there? It looks like he’s supervising the whole damned show!” Hibbon exclaimed, surprised at the little creature’s composure and rapt attention amidst all the noise and bustle and the clashing of sabres; surprised too that nobody’d trodden on it, even if it was sitting on someone’s shirt with its tail curled up neatly beside its velvety black body.

  “That’s Rowan’s cat, Scrap, that the silly bugger rescued from somewhere or other. He follows Rowan everywhere; the lads call him his little shadow. He’s in charge down here these days,” Telli laughed, “And there’s Rowan…”

  “Aye, I see him,” Hibbon said thoughtfully, watching carefully as Rowan lifted weights with a couple of other men.

  Rowan’s scars were startling, to say the least, but it was obvious that his previous injuries weren’t hindering him at all. No, he looked remarkably fit and able after the dreadful things Telli had told him had happened.

  “What do you think would happen if that useless bugger Rollo suddenly leapt out from somewhere, Hibbon?” Telli asked softly.

  “I think the bastard would have to duck very bloody smartly or Rowan would take his head off with one of those weights,” Hibbon replied, “And if he missed with that, I’m pretty sure he’d grab a sabre and sort him out, injured ankle or not. He looks in damned good shape to me. Let’s go over and…”

 
; “Wait! Wait a moment. It looks like he and Stefan are going to spar now,” Telli said.

  “Good. I’ll be able to see better how he’s moving.”

  **********

  Quite a few other men were standing there watching too and Telli and Hibbon mingled discreetly. Hibbon could see that the Sword Master was very, very good indeed, and he’d give anyone a good run for their money, but his tall, silver-haired opponent with the beautiful, unmistakable style that he’d always had, was better. True, they weren’t at full speed and Rowan was definitely favouring an ankle, but Hibbon knew that wasn’t important. If he really had to, Rowan could probably end the bout any time he felt like it. Hibbon watched carefully for a little longer.

  “Great bloody Beldar!” Hibbon whispered. “He’s damned nearly as good as he ever was, even with that damned ankle as it is, and he will be if we can get the bloody thing right. Unbelievable. Even without his fall, I thought after Messton and Trill, he’d…

  “So did I. So did everyone, I think, to be truthful,” Telli said softly, “But no… we were all wrong.”

  “That other lad, young Stefan, is good, too,” Hibbon said thoughtfully, “Very damned good. He’ll do very, very well, Telli, but I don’t think he’s going to win it.” He watched the only dual Champion ever for a bit longer, just for the sheer pleasure of it.

  “Can you show me where to find a bookmaker later, Telli?” he asked quietly.

  **********

  50. “… ‘tis only a game.”

  The last few weeks had flown by and now with only two weeks before the Trophy Tournament began, practically all of the contestants were in Den Siddon, settled into their new surroundings and training hard for the Tournament of their lives. The last few men – this year there were no women in the competition - would arrive soon and the rest were accommodated within the garrison, where they could continue their preparations in some sort of privacy from the masses. Spectators and general hangers-on were filling inns and hostelries for quite a distance around Den Siddon, and quite a few were billeted with local townsfolk. And for those remaining, a tent town had sprung up on the other side of the river.

  Telli smiled to himself as a big group of swordsmen from all over Yaarl trotted past him on a training run. Den Siddon’s team was whittled down to four now, the maximum number that could be entered by any single garrison. Of course, there weren’t many garrisons that could actually find so many men who were good enough to qualify. Telli thought that Stefan and Corran had a damned good chance, particularly Stefan, and they’d make a good showing; Abel and Gerral would do well too, but he thought they’d probably not make it past the Round of Thirty-two. Nothing wrong with that. But the man he still thought would give it a hell of a shake wasn’t with the group.

  Dammit, he thought, looks like he’s not back to full training yet. Mind you, the mere fact of Rowan’s still being in contention at all was amazing to anyone who knew the whole story. There were a hell of a lot of rumours flying about among those who didn’t and if you paid them any mind you’d think Rowan was practically on death’s door still. None of that dented the Guard’s faith in their man though: they knew what he’d done at Messton and Trill and afterwards, and he’d been far more seriously hurt then than he was now. And of course Hibbon was here helping him with his training. That had to be a plus.

  Telli saw a little black cat stalking a pigeon around the slabs of the great Memorial. What the hell are you doing there, he wondered, you should be off guarding Rowan’s shirt somewhere at this time of the day, even if he’s not running. He frowned thoughtfully and went to see. The cat gave him a reproachful look as the pigeon flapped away, but it didn’t object when Telli leaned down and stroked its velvety fur.

  “What are you up to, young Scrap?” Telli said quietly.

  “Just giving the pigeons a bit of a workout,” came the reply, “The silly things are getting too fat and lazy.”

  Telli looked around in surprise. Rowan smiled at him from where he sat on the grass, leaning comfortably against the foreleg of the statue of Mica.

  “Sorry to intrude on you, Rowan,” Telli said hastily, “I didn’t see you there. Too busy tickling Scrap’s ears.”

  Rowan laughed.

  “’Tis a good way to spend the time. But you’re not intruding, Telli. I’m just watching the world go by for a bit.”

  “I thought you might be… er…”

  “Out running with that mob of louts that’s just pounded past? Aye, well, I probably should be, too, but…” Rowan shrugged, “But I find it stirs my cursed ankle up too much. Hibbon thinks I’ve done enough exercises and things for now and I’ll be going swimming again later when it’s not quite so bloody cold.”

  Telli’s eyes widened.

  Rowan had spent a lot of time swimming in the river to strengthen his shoulder and ankle and, unconventional though it was, it seemed to have been doing him good. Hibbon had seen no reason to discourage him. Now, though, with the tent city occupying the banks for a good distance, he had to travel a fair distance to escape the inevitable gawkers.

  “Bloody Hells. I was going to ask you how you thought you’d go in the Trophy, now that you’re more or less back with the Squad and you’ve seen most of the opposition, but…” unconcerned by the dignity of his rank, Telli sat beside Rowan on the grass and looked at him worriedly.

  Rowan shook his head and laughed.

  “Telli, don’t fret yourself. My ankle’s all right, and the brace helps a lot. As I keep telling anyone who’ll listen, I’ll just front up and take my chances in the Trophy when it comes around. But I’ve still got a couple of weeks till then, so I’m giving my ankle a bit more of a rest, a bit of um, pampering. It’ll be fine, truly, and I really think I’ll be running around like young Scrap here in no time at all.”

  “I bloody hope so, laddie.”

  “So does Hibbon and so do I. It seems a shame not to put all that bloody hard work to good use. Besides, Telli, to answer your question… aye, I think I can still win it.”

  “Truly?”

  Rowan nodded.

  “Aye, truly. There’s a young Crellian lad who’s very good, probably their best chance of winning it for a hell of a long time, and I’ve seen a man from Salandar who’s bloody good too. And Stefan’s the best of the Wirrans… but unless the others are just foxing for now, I think I’ll be able to get past them all right, if I get on with it and don’t mess about too much. Even that arrogant bugger whatsisname from Den Escher, who’s so full of himself.”

  “Alun Goffsson, you mean?” Telli smiled reminiscently, “You beat his father in the Final of your first Trophy. Seems the son thinks he can go one better, and he’s not shy about letting everyone know it.”

  Rowan nodded again.

  “Aye, that’s him. I thought he looked familiar, but I didn’t realise… he’s got all of his father’s arrogance and his damned big mouth too. He’s a very good swordsman, but ‘tisn’t right how he treats some of the other lads,” Rowan frowned suddenly as he thought about it, “The next time I see him looking down his nose at someone I might have to thump him for his trouble.”

  “What! He’s been looking down his nose at you?” Telli was shocked at such disrespect for the dual Champion, and he wasn’t having it. “The ignorant bastard! I’ll have words with him myself.”

  “No, no! Not at me, Telli. I truly don’t care of he looks down his nose at me,” and it’s bloody hard to do when I’m four or five inches taller than him, Rowan thought, “But I really don’t like it when he does it to some of the younger lads. They’ve got as much right to be here as he has.”

  “Aye, of course they have. Er, Rowan… you wouldn’t really thump him, would you?”

  “Dammit. I suppose it wouldn’t do, would it?” Rowan sighed. “He’d be sure to make a formal bloody complaint and I’d find myself barred from the Trophy. And just when I really want to win it too.”

  Telli stared at him in amazement. Surely he’d wanted to win it all along, hadn
’t he?

  “What the hell do you mean, Rowan?” he asked cautiously.

  Rowan shrugged.

  “Well, I’ve had a lot of time to think about it lately, and…” he said slowly. It wasn’t easy to put it into words. “I just don’t want it to end like this, I suppose. If I’d never come back to try again… well, that’s one thing that truly wouldn’t have worried me too much. I’d have come along and presented the Trophy medal to the new Champion and congratulated him, and that would’ve been that. But… I’ve got this far, and Hibbon and Stefan and the lads have all gone out of their way to help me. I feel like I’d be letting them and myself down if I didn’t at least keep trying. ‘Tisn’t as if anything’s been broken, and ‘tisn’t as if I’m keeping anyone else out of the tournament. They always reserve a spot for the poor old Champion and they’ll just have a bye in the first Round if I don’t front up.” He shook his head and smiled at Telli. “I suppose the truth is I’m just too bloody stubborn to give up on it.”

  Telli laughed.

  “Of course you are, laddie. You’re a bloody forester when all’s said and done! You’re all too stubborn and too damned honest for your own good!”

  “Well, I hope I’m always honest, at least,” Rowan laughed. “You know, I think I must be getting old and grumpy, Telli. All the miserable old buggers quacking on are starting to really irritate me this time. Truly, even before all this latest drama I was fed up with hearing that I’m too old, that I shouldn’t be here, that I’m going to fall apart before the bloody competition even starts, and if by some miracle I don’t, then I certainly will once it’s begun. And now they’re all saying I can’t come back from a bit of a bloody tumble, as if I’m some damned fragile little flower. ‘Tis madness.”

  He shook his head, bemused. “Do folk truly believe I’d be here just for something to do, just here to make up the damned numbers?” He looked at Telli and smiled happily. “No, Telli, this time I’m going to shut them up once and for all. This one’s mine, no matter what my ankle or anyone else thinks about it.”