by Helen Gosney
Dana had shaken her head in wonderment then, and she did so again now. Nothing had changed, she thought. Rowan was always surrounded by dogs and cats and the Gods only knew what else. The animals would follow Rose too of course, because the twins were inseparable, and Tilly’s grandson Glyn with them, but it was Rowan they’d bring sticks or balls back for, or bring their tiny kittens for him to see. And in the case of her neighbour Tilly’s damned goats, bring themselves down the road for the sheer pleasure of following Rowan back home to plot their next escape. They didn’t even mind if he rode them. Eating Dana’s garden was just a bonus for them.
But cats and dogs and goats were one thing, and enormous bulls like Grumpy were another. I love you dearly Rowan, my little lad, she thought, but you’ll be the bloody death of me yet.
**********
1. “…he wants to join the Guard.”
The Captain of the Guard at the small garrison of Den Sorl wasn’t happy. It had all started, he thought, when his wife had told him that her mother was going to extend her visit for another week, maybe two. Then it’d been oats – bloody horse feed! – for breakfast. And he’d found his favourite horse was lame. Nothing too serious wrong, luckily, but still… And THEN he’d received a dispatch from the cursed Commandant about some nonsense or other. Thank the Gods the stupid man was safely tucked up in Den Siddon, a good week’s trek from here at the rate the Commandant moved. Of course the troopers could do it a lot quicker than that, he mused.
If it weren’t for the fact the Commandant was permanently stationed there in Den Siddon, Captain Telli Carlson thought it wouldn’t be a bad posting really. A big garrison, and a lot of responsibility, but the troops there were the best in Wirran; and the place itself was in the mountains and quite beautiful. He knew the present Captain of the Guard well, as it happened, Captain Johan. Like practically all Wirran garrisons, Den Siddon carried on the tradition of using a man’s formal title in formal situations and in front of outsiders, and his rank and first name among themselves. Thus Captain Johan Bendtsen was simply Captain Johan to his troopers in the barracks and his colleagues elsewhere. It certainly didn’t imply any lack of respect or discipline.
Telli and Johan had been recruits together. Johan always said it was best to just salute and “Aye, Sir” a lot to the Commandant when he poked his nose in where it wasn’t wanted, which he did a lot, and then go ahead and do things the way they should be done anyway. It seemed the Commandant never noticed the difference. Too busy with his Soirees and Balls apparently. According to Johan the worst part of that was always having to dance with all the fine ladies and the raddled old hags at the Commandant’s entertainments – apparently there wasn’t always a lot of difference between them. Telli smiled to himself. Johan had always been too handsome for his own good.
At least there wasn’t that problem in his little backwater of Den Sorl. He was “lucky” to see the Commandant once a year, and he’d be doing well to find enough fine ladies to stock a Ball. He knew a few raddled old hags though.
Telli sighed as he read the Commandant’s latest effort again. All very well to say that recruitment was down, but he couldn’t just go out and drag the lads in off the street. And there was hell to pay if the lads weren’t old enough, they had to be near as dammit sixteen. They just weren’t strong enough before then, and most of them were so unfit it was a real struggle for everyone for the first few months anyway. He’d wondered sometimes if they shouldn’t be taking younger lads, not being so tough on them for a bit, and then get them into the harder training, rather than just tossing them to the wolves… er, instructors and drill sergeants. This latest lot, now… his head started to ache and his mood worsened.
“Come!” he barked at a knock on his door.
Sergeant Blacken lumbered in, looking a little nervous. Blacken, nervous? The man was as tough as nails and supposedly ate little children for breakfast.
“What is it, Sergeant?”
“Er… sorry to interrupt you, Sir, but…”
“Well? Out with it, man!”
“Sir, I’ve got a fellow here with his son. Wants to join the Guard, Sir. The son, I mean, Sir,” Blacken managed.
“So? Sign him up then. He’s got two arms and two legs and only one head, hasn’t he? What’s the problem?” Telli really wasn’t in the mood for this.
“Well, Sir, he’s only fourteen…”
Captain Telli shook his head.
“Sorry, Sergeant, but you know the rules. You don’t need to bother me with this. Send him away for a couple of years.”
“Aye, Sir. Er, the thing is, Sir…”
“The thing is, he’s fourteen, Blacken. Send him away.”
“Aye, Sir.” Blacken looked uncomfortable, but he ploughed on. “But, but… well, they’ve come from Sian, Sir. They’re foresters… he looks a likely lad, Sir, strong, fit…” Blacken’s deep voice trailed away.
Captain Telli looked at his sergeant closely. It wasn’t like him to question orders. And he was a damned good judge of character too. But a lad of fourteen? Dammit. Why today? Then again, it was just one more aggravation in a day that seemed full of them.
“Did you say they’re foresters?” he said.
“Aye, sir.”
The oddness of it piqued his interest. The foresters of Sian were fine people, but he didn’t think he’d ever heard of one wanting to be a Guard. Usually it was the forest and nothing else with them. Oh, they might be woodcutters or charcoal burners or hunters or whatever, but not Guardsmen. No, it was unheard of. And it certainly wasn’t because they were cowards. It was said that they’d fought in the last great war a few generations ago; they’d been fine warriors too. But there’d been only a few small skirmishes and scuffles since then, thank the Gods, and the foresters had shown no sign of wanting to become Guardsmen again. Until today, it seemed. How very odd, he thought again.
“Oh, send them in then, Blacken, but don’t get their hopes up.”
“Aye, Sir. As you say, Sir” Blacken saluted with right fist to heart in the proper way and almost scurried out, if a man of his size could be said to scurry.
This day is getting worse and definitely getting bloody odder as it goes on, thought Telli, rubbing his aching forehead.
**********
Captain Telli looked at the two men standing before him. Well, one man really – and a damned big one at that, he had to be over six and a half feet tall, like many foresters – and a tallish lad of perhaps fourteen or so standing straight and still beside him. They weren’t all that alike physically, but yet they were unmistakably father and son. They’d walked in side by side, with the same cat-like grace and economy of movement and both were strong, well balanced and light-footed, with a watchful calm about them.
“Good day to you Sir, and thank you for seeing us,” the man said in excellent Wirran coupled with the soft lilting accent of the neighbouring province of Sian. He was a broadshouldered, heavily muscled man with thick brown hair tied back in the traditional braid of the foresters of Sian. He and the lad were dressed in leather trousers and clean but well-worn woollen shirts and both carried a gleaming, very businesslike and wickedly sharp looking axe on their back.
“My name is Rhys d’Rhuary del’Quist, and this one here is my son, Rowan,” the man continued, “He wants to join the Guard.”
Straight to the point, thought the Captain approvingly. The Siannen foresters were known for being honest and forthright. He studied the lad with interest.
The boy stood straight and as tall as he could beside his father. He had a lot of growing to do before he’d reach his father’s stature, Telli thought, and maybe he never would, but only a forester could imagine he was small. He was a slim, tallish lad, but Telli could see that he was well muscled, with a strong body and good arms and shoulders. His hair was a dark auburn, tied back in a similar braid to his father’s, and he had his father’s mottled green-brown eyes too, the colour the Captain’s wife would call hazel. It wasn’t a common colour in Yaa
rl. The father was handsome, but the lad’s face was quite beautiful.
“How old are you, lad?” the Captain asked him.
“Fourteen last month, Sir,” the boy replied politely. His Wirran was just as good as his father’s, his accent equally beguiling.
“Fourteen? We don’t take recruits under fifteen, and really we prefer the lads to be sixteen,” Telli said.
“Ah, yes, I thought that might be the way of it, Sir, but young Rowan’s so damned set on the idea of joining the Guard that nothing would do but that we come and see you now. He would have come by himself if I hadn’t managed to convince him it’d be better if I came with him.” Rhys said, looking down at his son with a mixture of affection and exasperation.
Rowan looked straight ahead at the Captain, disappointment written all over him, but not close to giving up just yet. He squared his shoulders a little more and looked the Captain straight in the eye.
“Sir, I’m strong, and I’m fit, and I’m a hard worker. I’m used to working with the older men in the forest and none of them has ever complained that I can’t keep up with them,” he said politely but firmly, as softly spoken as his father .
“Can you read and write, lad?”
Father and son looked shocked to think that this Wirran might believe that he couldn’t, but their inherent good manners saved them.
“Yes, Sir, of course. Ma Bigbum… er, er, your pardon, Sir, Mater Bigginum as I meant to say, Sir… she, she taught me and all the youngsters at home, Sir,” the lad managed.
Rhys smiled at his son’s slip. He’d called the old teacher that when he was a lad himself.
“Rowan can read and write in Siannen, Wirran, Bettran, and of course in Common. He can speak a couple of other tongues well enough to be understood too, and he’s been trying to learn Trollish from some of the local forest trolls, but of course ‘tis hard going,” he said, “I believe you’ll find most foresters can do the same, Sir. We seem to have an ear for language.” And we’re not the bloody savages a lot of you Wirrans seem to think, he thought to himself.
Telli nodded thoughtfully, hoping his surprise hadn’t shown. Quite a few recruits struggled to even write their own names. Of course they’d learn, and damned quickly too.
“And can you ride a horse, lad?”
“Yes, Sir, I can ride anything. Sorry, Sir, I didn’t mean to brag, but ‘tis the truth.” Rowan looked up at his father for a moment. Rhys winked at his son and they grinned at each other as if at a shared memory, then both were serious again.
“Can you handle a sword?” Telli asked, intrigued by this young fellow but already knowing what the answer would be.
“No, Sir,” the lad answered sadly. “I’ve never even held a sword.” He brightened though. “But I’m good with an axe and a bow and a knife, and I’m not bad with a quarterstaff. And I’ve been out with our hunters since I was six.”
Captain Telli raised a quizzical eyebrow at Rhys.
“’Tis true, Sir, “ the big man replied, “At first I think they were only humouring the lad, but now he’s as good a hunter and tracker as any of them. Better than most. But ‘tis the Guard he wants, Sir, and as you say, he’s too young. I’m sorry we’ve wasted your time.” He put a hand on his son’s shoulder and started to turn away.
“Wait… wait a moment. You’ve come all the way from Sian, through that cursed Dogleg Pass I imagine, and now you’re going back?” the Captain was appalled. He looked at Rhys and Rowan a bit more closely. He’d wager a month’s pay that they’d come that way and it wouldn’t have been the first time for either of them.
It was widely believed that even mountain goats avoided the Dogleg Pass and that only madmen and the proverbially stubborn Siannen foresters ever went there.
Telli knew that wasn’t quite so though, because he’d been through the Pass himself years ago. It had been stunning, with the long chain of the Sleeping Dogs running endlessly away from the windswept rocky precipice that was the Pass where it ran around the flank of the northern Fang. He’d seen plenty of mountain goats, or perhaps they were really sheep, with their long curly horns and wicked yellow eyes and oddly luxurious silky coats. No, surely no sheep had ever looked like these fierce splendid creatures. He’d never forget the exhilarating wildness, majesty and danger of it, but he’d made the trip home via the southern Break.
“Well, yes Sir, ‘tis quickest through the Pass,” Rhys replied reasonably, “And Rowan’s too young yet, as you say and the Sergeant said and I said it too, but he was too damned stubborn to listen.”
Telli watched Rowan’s face. The lad stood with his father, desperately disappointed but trying hard not to show it. He said nothing but he had to know that he must go back to his home again. The Captain wondered how many arguments there’d been in that forester household and how in the Nether Hells the boy had managed to convince his father that somehow he might be accepted by the Guard, even though he knew he was simply too young. Probably the father thought the only way he could finally convince his stubborn son that his dream was just not possible yet was to let him try, and fail, Telli thought. It was a hard way to learn a lesson, but sometimes it was the only way. And he’d managed to get past Sergeant Blacken too. Dammit! Why couldn’t the young fellow have waited another year? He’d have gladly taken him then. He thought some more. There was something that had been nagging at him, he realised.
“Why did you come all that way, lad, when there are Guard garrisons in Sian? There must have been something closer to your home than here.” he said.
“Yes, Sir, there are… they’re not called ‘Den’, like they are here, but they’re Guard posts all the same,” Rowan said, “But… well, the truth is the training’s said to be better in Wirran, Sir.” He simply stated it as a fact, with no hint of guile, just as any forester would. Foresters rarely lied and they were simply no good at it at all.
He was right, Captain Telli thought. Wirran men nearly always did the best in the Trials and Tournaments and things. Odd that this lad might know that. He looked at him again. He did look a likely lad, he thought: quick, strong, not afraid of hard work and as honest and forthright as any forester ever born. Dammit! He was starting to sound like Blacken! The lad was still only fourteen.
“Are you right or left handed, lad?” Telli asked this purely to test out a private theory. Nearly all Siannens and folk of Siannen blood that he’d met had the very useful ability to use either hand with equal ease. He could do it himself and his grandmother had been Siannen. Not a forester though.
The young fellow looked at him, puzzled. He glanced up at his father, who shrugged and shook his head; he was just as baffled as his son.
“Er, well… either, Sir,” Rowan said slowly. He looked at his callused long-fingered hands and thought about it a bit more. “I just use them both, like Pa and my sister and… well, like everybody, sir. Everyone except the local priests and the saddlers…”
Oh, why not ask, Telli thought. It doesn’t matter if it’s just sheer idle curiosity.
“Indulge me, lad… are they Siannens too?”
Father and son were completely confused by now. They looked at each other again and obviously decided to, yes, simply indulge this madman. Their good manners stayed intact though. Truly, they were a credit to their upbringing, Telli thought.
“No Sir,” Rowan said, “The priests are from, umm… Loren, two of them are, and I think the new one’s Giannese. He might be Crellian, from the south, perhaps. And the harness makers are Thallassians, Sir.”
“Thank you, lad,” Telli said, pleased to have his theory confirmed again.
“Come, Rowan, we can’t waste any more of the Captain’s time now,” the father’s deep voice said. He sounded disappointed for his headstrong son.
“No, Pa, I suppose we can’t,” the lad said sadly. “Thank you for seeing us, Sir,” he added politely as he started to turn away. He still stood straight and tall, but his shoulders had slumped a little.
“Wait a moment…” Telli sa
id again. He picked up his own scabbarded sword and looked at it critically. It would probably be too long and too heavy for this lad, but still… somehow he doubted the boy would do himself a mischief with it. Telli tossed it to him without warning. Rowan looked startled but he didn’t flinch. He caught the sword easily in his left hand and looked down at the silver-chased scabbard in wonder.
“May I, Sir?” he asked hopefully.
Telli smiled at him and nodded.
Rowan drew the sword carefully, frowning in concentration as he felt the heft and balance of it. He tossed it to his other hand and repeated the exercise, twisting his wrist carefully as he adjusted his grip. He tried a two-handed grip, discarded it, and tossed the sword from hand to hand a few times as Telli watched him in fascination. The lad’s concentration was absolute and he might as well have been the only one in the room for all the attention he paid to his father and Telli as he finally found a grip that suited him. He made a few experimental swings with the sword, shifting his stance without thinking about it. Of course the strokes were unpolished, but they weren’t wild or uncontrolled and the lad was perfectly balanced, his grip on the hilt strong and sure and relaxed. This was a youngster used to swinging an axe for hours on end in the forest after all; he wasn’t big, but he was strong.
Gods, thought Telli; this lad is a natural swordsman if ever I’ve seen one. And truly with either hand too. And barely fourteen years old, he reminded himself.
“Just wait outside for a moment, please Rowan. I want to speak with your father,” he said finally.
Rhys looked Telli in the eye as the door closed behind his son. He knew damned well what this Captain was thinking, it had been written all over his face, and it looked like he might be right too. But he knew that Telli was still fretted about Rowan’s age. Time for him to say his piece, he thought unhappily.
“Sir, Rowan’s a good lad,” he began, “He’s honest and respectful and good at taking orders from the other men in the forest. He’s a hard worker; he works as hard as any man there, like all of our lads, and he’s strong and fit and can turn his hand to almost anything. He’s wonderful with our beasts, and he’s damned good with a bow and a knife too. Of course he’s no angel, far from it, but what lad is? And he truly is an obedient lad, though you might be thinking otherwise…” Rhys smiled a bit sadly to himself and continued.
