Red Rowan: Book 3: Return of the Reluctant Hero

by Helen Gosney

  **********

  “Gods, Rowan looks fit, doesn’t he?” Cris Farleri said quietly.

  The Priest of the One, Brother Tadeus, nodded thoughtfully. Rowan did indeed look very fit and though he seemed calm he looked like he meant business too. When Tadeus had heard on the Tabernacle’s very efficient grapevine that the Champion was in training for his third Trophy, he’d simply had to make the long trip to see the man in action. Brother Hess was too frail now to come, but he’d promised his old friend that he’d see as many of the Champion’s bouts as he could and he’d tell him everything when he returned to Gnash. He’d even put a wager on for him and might put on something for himself when he’d seen just how good Rowan still was.

  And then when he’d got to Den Siddon, who should Tadeus see among a big group of Siannen foresters but the little ratcatcher, Cris Farleri of Gnash, and his friends Moss and Rill. Amazing how you could travel so damned far and still come across folk you knew, he thought. Apparently Cris and Rill had gone to Sian to visit Rowan, only to find him not there and his kin and the troll about to set off for the Trophy, so they’d simply joined them and here they were.

  Even in the short time he’d been in Den Siddon, Tadeus had heard a hell of a lot of rumours about Rowan, but surely they couldn’t all be true or he simply wouldn’t be here. All this silly talk of burns and broken bones and missed lead-up tournaments just had to be wrong, to say nothing of the even more dire rumours of serious head injuries – some were saying a fractured skull! – and a ruined ankle.

  The priest looked at Rowan again as the other fellow fiddled with his boots. He was very tall for a top-class swordsman, certainly taller than his opponent and probably taller than most of the swordsmen here, Tadeus thought. Long-limbed too, so he’d have a reach advantage. And anyone who’d ever seen him in competition said that he was astoundingly fast and very strong and his balance and footwork were legendary. Hmm… good broad shoulders, strongly built but not heavy and he had a quiet air of supreme competence about him. Well, the man was the dual Champion after all and he looked it. Mind you, he’d been through a hell of a lot since then… that was an awful scar down that right shoulder and arm and Tadeus could see another scar that started somewhere under the other arm and disappeared under his beautiful competition singlet.

  Tadeus had wondered if Rowan’s experiences at Messton and Trill might affect his performance, but it seemed not… he was in superb physical shape in spite of his previous injuries and he was very relaxed too. Tadeus had never seen anyone less stressed at a tournament, but then Rowan’s calmness and poise were legendary too. Even as a youngster he’d been known for it and now he had the sort of composure that only years of hard work and brutal experience can produce. No nervous jiggling about or fiddling with his boots with this man. The referee droned through the rules of the competition and the combatants returned to their seconds. Not long now, Tadeus thought. He could feel the tension in the crowd.

  He watched in fascination as Rowan absently tossed his beautiful sabre from hand to hand a few times, settled on a good left-handed grip, smiled at his second and turned to face his opponent. Bloody Hells. His second was that fellow Hibbon Harrelson, the old Sword Master who’d trained so many Trophy winners. Amazing. Rowan bowed his head politely, raised his blade in formal salute, and suddenly he was fully focussed on the job in hand.

  The sabres flashed as the two men danced around the circle, both light-footed and graceful.

  By the One, Tadeus thought in amazement, this lad truly is still very bloody good. That shoulder doesn’t hinder him at all, his balance is perfect and his footwork superb, and his speed is simply astonishing. The fellow from Den Tissot wasn’t a bad swordsman, his mere presence in the Trophy tournament proved that, and he was twelve years younger than Rowan, but he was simply outclassed. There was a clang as his sabre fell to the ground following a move that neither he nor anyone else had seen coming.

  Tadeus stared in amazement as Rowan strolled back to his second, said something to him, and then swallowed a single mouthful of water as he waited for the next round. He looked calm and relaxed about the whole business, the priest thought, but his opponent was looking very concerned. With good reason. It was very obvious that the Champion wasn’t there just to make up the numbers.

  **********

  Tadeus had been a very good swordsman himself in his day, before he’d found his religious calling late in life. He’d actually competed in the Trophy tournament himself, forty years ago now, and he’d done very, very well, finishing in the Round of Eight. He’d been eliminated by the eventual winner, Beliss Jared of Crell, the first Crellian to ever win the Championship. And the last, Tadeus thought wryly: the poor bloody Crellians had been trying hard to win it again, but without success. It was said they had a red-hot prospect this year, but they’d been saying that forever. Mind you, Jared was probably the best swordsman Tadeus had ever seen, along with Johan Bendtsen… until today.

  Rowan came back out for the second round. Dear Lord, he makes it look so damned easy, Tadeus thought in wonder as Rowan almost casually disarmed his hapless opponent again. I wouldn’t like to be the poor fellow facing him… but if he ever had faced someone like this, Tadeus knew that he’d have been thrilled and honoured to have the opportunity and he’d have tried his best against him. His best simply wouldn’t have been good enough though, he knew. Rowan would have wiped the floor with him and he had a sudden feeling he’d have done the same with Jared of Crell. Rowan hadn’t been extended in today’s bout, hadn’t raised a sweat, but Tadeus knew that as certainly as he knew that the sun had risen this morning.

  “Cris, did you happen to notice where the bookmakers are?” he said softly as Rowan shook hands with his opponent, the referee and judges, acknowledged the loud applause and cheers of the crowd and left the circle. His opponent looked stunned as the realisation that his tournament was already over began to sink in.

  **********

  53. “… he doesn’t mess about.”

  Rowan had cut a swathe through his opponents just as he’d done in the last Trophy tournament ten years ago. Despite the many rumours circulating about his ankle and the concern of the healers as the competition had intensified, he seemed unstoppable.

  Tadeus had watched as many of his bouts as he’d been able to and he’d watched quite a few of the other bouts as well. There was nothing wrong with the quality of the contestants, there were some outstanding swordsmen there, but Rowan hadn’t lost a single round and hadn’t ever really looked like he was going to. And now here he was in the Round of Four, with Lieutenant Stefan of Den Siddon, Lieutenant Alun Goffson of Den Farrar and a young Crellian who had lived up to his reputation and looked to be their best chance for a very long time, Feltoris Axel.

  Stefan and the Crellian had faced off and after a very close, very hard-fought battle, Axel had won.

  “I’m so sorry, Stefan. You did damned well,” Rowan said quietly. He was glad it hadn’t been him who’d eliminated Stefan.

  “Aye, I truly thought I had him in that last round,” Stefan said, “He’s very good, Rowan. A bit one-paced, but very bloody good. Be careful of him.”

  “Don’t let’s get ahead of ourselves,” Rowan laughed, “I have to see this other lad off first.”

  “I truly don’t think you’ll have too much trouble with him, Rowan. He’s good, but not as good as he thinks he is. Arrogant bugger. He takes too many risks, and he bullies his opponents.”

  Rowan nodded. He’d watched all of his likely opponents in their earlier matches and he’d noticed the same thing with this particular person. Besides, the man’s arrogant assumption of entitlement and scornful disregard for his fellow competitors at training had irritated him.

  “Aye, he does too. Well, he’ll have to try a hell of a lot harder if he thinks he’s going to bully me,” Rowan smiled at Stefan. “You’ve done a damned good job with the squad, Stefan. You should be proud.”

  “Aye, I am pleased. We’ve all do
ne well. Gerral and Abel both got to the Round of Sixteen, which to be truthful I didn’t expect. And Corran and that lad Karl, the demon swordsman, got to the Round of Eight and me to the Round of Four,” Stefan smiled happily, “And you’re going to win the bloody thing.”

  “Maybe. We’ll see…” Rowan smiled again.

  “Don’t tell me you’re going to take your sabre and go home now!”

  “No…” Rowan said thoughtfully, “Probably not just yet. I’ve got this far, it seems a shame not to keep going. Besides, the punters should get a fair run for their money. The bookmakers get it too easily as it is.”

  “How’s the ankle really holding up, Rowan?” Of course Stefan knew of the healers’ concern, knew too that Rowan had made no complaints.

  Rowan shrugged. At the business end of the tournament, his ankle was swollen and aching, and he’d found himself limping a bit after his last couple of bouts.

  “’Tis all right, Stefan. It aches a bit, but it’s got me this far and I think it’ll get me a bit further.”

  Stefan nodded. Rowan had got through his earlier Rounds as quickly as he could, so as to put the least possible stress on his ankle. Some bouts had been over shockingly quickly. Stefan had never seen anyone so focussed and quietly determined and he thought the ankle would probably have to snap in half to stop his friend now.

  “Mind you,” Rowan added, “I won’t be sorry when all this is over and I can rest it again. You know, put the feet up, sit about drinking cups of tea and thinking pure thoughts…”

  “Ah. Well, I’d tell you to be careful of it, but… we do what we have to do, when we have to do it, don’t we? Good luck, Rowan. I truly believe you’re going to win this,” Stefan grinned at him, “And now that I’m out of it and I can’t, I hope to hell that you do.”

  “I’ll do my best, Stefan. ‘Tis all I can do.”

  “That’s all you’ll have to do, laddie.”

  **********

  Lieutenant Alun Goffsson of Den Farrar looked up into Rowan’s eyes, surprised at how very calm and intent he was and how frighteningly fit and competent he appeared. He suddenly seemed very different to the cheerful fellow that he’d seen at training, the one being careful of an injured ankle. Mind you, the ankle was still in that odd but very useful brace and he’d seen Rowan limping after his last few bouts. No, he wasn’t going to be beaten by him. You might have stopped my father, old man, he thought to himself, but you’re not going to stop me. This time I’m going to wipe the floor with you. This is MY bloody Trophy.

  Rowan smiled to himself as he saw the thoughts written so plainly across Alun’s face. You can certainly try, laddie, he thought, carefully keeping his own face inscrutable. That’s what you’ve worked so hard for, and good luck to you. But I truly do think you’re not going to be able to do it. You’re too focussed on trying to intimidate folk and not concerning yourself enough with what they’re about. It simply won’t work against me and it wouldn’t have worked against Stefan either. Pity he didn’t get the bout against you.

  Alun’s bullying, rushing tactics and relative youth did him no good at all. Rowan was simply far too swift and far too good for him, no matter what problems he might still have with his ankle. With no apparent difficulty at all he disarmed the Lieutenant twice and found himself in the final Round of the Champions’ Trophy again.

  There was stunned silence as the huge crowd of onlookers took in the enormity of Rowan’s achievement… he was in the Final of the Trophy for the third consecutive time. Unheard of, simply unheard of.

  Whether or not he won the Final, and there was nothing to suggest that he couldn’t, it was an unimaginable achievement.

  **********

  Great One! This Siannen lad certainly doesn’t mess about, Tadeus thought admiringly as Rowan acknowledged the now-noisy cheers of the crowd of onlookers. Some of the swordsmen were bits of show-offs, he’d noticed, and if they could score extra points against their opponents, they did. But not Rowan. If he saw an opportunity to disarm his opponent, he took it, whether or not it was in the first minute or so of the bout. It seemed he simply saw no point in dancing around and showing off his incredible ability if he could finish the job sooner.

  You’ve been well trained, lad, the priest thought. I’ve seldom seen a more beautiful swordsman to watch, and I’ve never seen a better one at getting the job done. Obviously your experiences at Messton and Trill have made you even less inclined to waste time playing. Tadeus had thought those experiences would have affected Rowan’s ability to compete, but he seemed at peace with himself and his progress through the tournament had been stunning, simply stunning. He hadn’t lost a single round and hadn’t ever looked like he was going to.

  **********

  54. “… unlikely to ever be equalled.”

  Feltoris Axel of Crell had done well, very well indeed. He’d had a difficult bout against a very talented fellow from Den Siddon and truly, the bout could probably have gone either way, but he’d scraped through to progress to the Trophy Final. And almost the first person to congratulate him had been the Champion himself.

  “Congratulations, Axel, you’ve won that well,” Rowan had said, shaking his hand, “Good luck in the Final.”

  “It hasn’t sunk in yet that I’m in the Final, Sir.”

  Rowan had laughed.

  “It will. And when it does, try not to be nervous. And don’t let anyone or anything put you off your game.”

  “Even if I’m facing you, Sir?” He’d seen as many of the Champion’s matches as he could, like every other competitor, and the man had been stunning. So quick, so strong, so graceful… so unbeatable. He hadn’t lost a single round.

  “Especially if it turns out that you’re facing me, Axel. ‘Tis one thing to be beaten by a man, but to let his reputation do the job for him before he’s even set foot in the damned circle is just plain daft and a waste of a hell of a lot of hard work. And please, call me Rowan. Truly, I prefer it.”

  “I… I… thank you, Sir,” Axel had managed.

  “Rowan, Axel. Just look on me as being a Siannen trying to beat the Wirrans at their own game, the same as you Crellians do. And we’ve both done a damned good job of it too.”

  Axel had never thought of it like that, but now he’d try to.

  **********

  And now here he was, standing beside Rowan as their seconds fussed about behind them, gathering up sabres, water bottles, towels, and whatever else they thought they might need during the coming contest. They’d finished their warmups and very soon they’d enter the circle.

  “Good luck, Axel,” Rowan said softly, “Don’t let the crowd put you off, it’ll be bloody noisy out there until we get going, but then they’ll mostly shut up.”

  Axel looked at him in surprise.

  “Will they?”

  “Oh, aye. There’s always a few loudmouths, but as my brother-in-law says, they wouldn’t know which end of a sabre to hold till they cut their fingers off. The rest will be too gobsmacked by our consummate skills to say much,” Rowan smiled at him, “’Tis a game, Axel. The trees will keep growing, no matter who wins. That doesn’t mean we won’t both be trying like hell to win it, but we should enjoy it too, if we can. All those louts watching us will, so why shouldn’t we?”

  Axel thought about this novel idea and suddenly he felt better.

  “Thank you, Rowan. Good luck to you too,” he said.

  **********

  He stood across from Rowan as the referee rattled through the rules. As if they didn’t know the cursed rules by now, he thought. Axel himself was tall for a Crellian, but even so he was nearly four inches shorter than Rowan. As they shook hands, Rowan smiled at him again.

  “Good luck, Axel. ‘Tis a game,” he said.

  Axel nodded.

  “It is a game. Good luck, Rowan,” he said.

  Rowan smiled and turned back to his second.

  “Rowan, you are taking this seriously, aren’t you? This lad is very bloody good,” Hibbon s
aid fiercely.

  “Aye, Hibbon, he is. Else he wouldn’t be here,” Rowan tried to look solemn, but his bright eyes gave him away, “But you surely don’t think I’m going to start taking it seriously now, do you?”

  “Rowan, you daft bugger. You know you can win this bloody thing if you just…”

  “Hibbon… don’t fret yourself. Young Axel is good, very bloody good as you say, but he’s not going to win this today, I’m sorry to say. He’s like a lot of these young lads now, they drop their shoulder too much.” He grinned suddenly. “Gods, I’m starting to sound like a miserable old bugger myself! But still, ‘tisn’t the way to do it. Just watch…” He winked at his old mentor, turned and strode back to the centre of the circle.

  Hibbon sighed as he watched the two men raise their sabres in the formal salute. Rowan’s progress to the Final had been inexorable. Nobody had looked like beating him, despite all the dire predictions that he was too old, that his old injuries would hamper him, that his preparation hadn’t been ideal and his ankle wasn’t right even now, and of course the fears of some that he’d likely go to pieces in the stress of competition. Hibbon knew that he himself was probably more stressed than Rowan was, and as for the rest of it…? It’d take a hell of a lot more than that to stop Rowan from doing something he was so set on doing. Hibbon shook his head and watched carefully as the two danced around the circle in the graceful, lightfooted way of all top class swordsmen, both intent on what they were doing and both very swift.

  Axel lunged forward suddenly, but Rowan was ready for him. He turned his body a fraction and twisted his wrist… so… and Axel’s sabre clanged to the ground.

  “Did you see it, Hibbon?” Rowan asked a few moments later as he swallowed a single mouthful of water.