by Helen Gosney
“You’ve told Fess?” Telli was surprised, but when he considered it a bit more, no. The two lads were close friends and Rowan had taken Fess home to Sian with him when they had leave. Fess had come back full of the wonders of the Dogleg Pass and the great forests of Sian, so much so that Rowan had had to tell him to shut up or he wouldn’t take him again. The dreadful thought of spending his next leave with his miserable old aunt instead of running free in Sian had silenced Fess immediately.
“He’s my friend, Sir. Of course I’ve told him,” Rowan said, puzzled to think that Telli might think otherwise.
“Well, Rowan, as I say, if you’re absolutely certain about it, I’ll write to the other Captains and the assessors and the Commandant. That should cover everyone,” Telli said, “And then we’ll see what they’ve got to say for themselves and with luck you’ll still get your chance at the Spurs.”
“Aye, Sir. Thank you. When is it, Sir?” Rowan asked.
“It starts in about six weeks. There’ll be time to let them know, don’t worry. There’s several assessments, trials, over seven or eight weeks. It’s not a public sort of thing and even we Captains aren’t welcome in case we influence the damned outcome somehow. There’ll only be the assessors from various garrisons, the Cadets of course, and a member of each competing garrison to give the lads some moral support. Lieutenant Trav and Sword Master Hibbon will be going from here as assessors and Sergeant Coll will be there to keep an eye on you.” Telli smiled at him again. “At the end of it all the Commandant winkles himself out of Den Siddon and presents the Spurs at the winner’s own garrison.”
And that’s probably why nobody from the Woopsies ever wins it, he thought savagely. Well, Rowan was just the lad to change that, Whisperer or not. For a moment he wondered if the Commandant would even remember the way to Den Sorl. In the almost three years that Rowan had been here, the old bugger had only visited once. It had happened that Rowan’s group had been out training in the field at the time, so Telli had been spared the inevitable earbashing he was going to get when the Commandant finally realised just how young the lad was. It’d be worth it though, when Rowan won the Spurs. Telli truly believed that he could and would.
Rowan nodded as he thought about it. He’d heard about the Spurs competition of course, but as nobody from Den Sorl had ever won it and the big garrisons seemed to have a monopoly on it, he hadn’t worried himself about it. Besides, he thought the Whispering would rule him out of it. He’d simply kept working as hard as he always did. But if he was to go in it and if he should happen to win, he’d want to share it with his friends and those at the garrison who’d supported him and helped to train him, not a bunch of strangers.
“Where is it held, Sir?” he asked.
“Various places… Weapons stuff in… um, I think it’s Den Ree this time. I’ll have to check. Riding’s usually done around Frissender. And the physical training trials are in the foothills of the Eagle’s Nest Mountains… ha! They should hold them here in the Sleeping Dogs. Then they’d see what real mountains are!”
Rowan smiled.
“Aye, they would too. Will it be near Den Siddon, Sir? I’ve never been there,” he asked hopefully. The Wirran lads never stopped talking about the biggest and most important garrison in the province and he’d like to see it for himself.
Telli shook his head.
“No, sorry, Rowan. It’s on the other side from Den Siddon. Never mind, I’m sure you’ll get there one day.”
“Maybe, Sir.”
“Don’t worry about that now, lad. You’ll have to get together with Horsemaster Trav and decide which horse you’ll take. You can have whichever one you like, of course.”
“I’ll take Devil, Sir. I know he can be a bugger of a horse, but he’s the best one we’ve got,” Rowan said with a grin.
Telli laughed again.
“Aye, he is too. We wouldn’t put up with him otherwise. Mind you, he’s a lot better than he used to be. He hardly kicks or bites at all now.” And never when Rowan was nearby.
“No, Sir. Still, the Horsemaster always says a good troop horse should have a bit of spirit.”
Telli nodded and laughed to himself. That’s as may be, he thought, but I haven’t seen Trav riding that bloody Devil too damned often.
**********
6. “A forester, you say? My, my. Fancy that!”
There’d been a lot of excitement and more than a bit of scepticism when Telli’s despatches were delivered. A Horse Whisperer! Surely they were only myths, weren’t they? Children’s tales! But what if it were true? Telli Carlson wasn’t the sort of man to imagine something like that, and if he had, he wouldn’t broadcast it unless he was utterly certain. And what did it mean for the Spurs competition? There was a lot of prestige associated with winning the Spurs, and it could certainly impact on a man’s career in the Guard. Should this… Whisperer… be allowed to enter, or not?
Then again, as Telli had pointed out to Rowan, the Spurs were judged on much more than horsemanship. Nobody could see how a talent with horses could possibly influence all of the other aspects of a Guardsman’s training. And of course this lad was from Den Sorl, some sniggered. Let him have his chance, and good luck to him. It was decided that Rowan could enter the competition, with the proviso that he’d be judged more severely in the horsemanship and riding sections. The Captains and assessors were looking forward to finding out just what the lad might be able to do. Most were cautiously sceptical, but the Commandant was openly scornful of the whole idea of Horse Whisperers or Masters or whatever one might decide to call a lad who merely happened to be good with horses.
**********
The panel of assessors for the first, physical fitness, phase of the test were shocked when they saw Rowan’s youthful face and long braid.
“What the hell’s Telli playing at?” the Den Bissen man demanded. “Why’s he sent us this… this babe-in-arms? They’ll slaughter him! And isn’t this the lad who’s supposed to be a Horse Master?”
Coll frowned at him.
“Aye, he is the lad who’s a Horse Master. But he can’t help it if he looks young, can he? His papers are all in order; he’s a Cadet like all the lads here. Everyone agreed he could go in the damned Spurs. Don’t worry about young Red, he’ll give the others a run for their money,” he said firmly.
“Young! Just how old is he? AND he’s a Siannen forester!”
“Really? A forester, you say? My, my. Fancy that,” Coll’s voice dripped with sarcasm, “Anyway, he’s nearly seventeen,” he added, straightfaced. Rowan’s birthday was in five months’ time, and he’d be a Trooper by then, just as all these other young fellows would be.
Thorle, from Den Triss, spoke up for his friend Coll. They’d been recruits together. “Well, the lad’s not big as foresters go, but he’s certainly not the smallest lad here, and he looks bloody strong and fit enough. Anyway, he’s here now and I for one don’t want to be doing all the cursed paperwork to disqualify him when he’s done nothing wrong. Telli let us know about the Whispering business, and I say we should still let the lad have a go. It’ll sort itself out in the assessments. The Gods know there’s enough of them.” And that wily old fox Telli Carlson wouldn’t have sent him here if he didn’t think the lad had a damned good chance, he knew. He certainly wouldn’t have sent him here to embarrass himself or his garrison.
The other assessors thought about it. Thorle’s words made sense, and the thought of the inevitable paperwork decided it. The young fellow from Den Sorl could take his place among the other Cadets and good luck to him.
Coll winked at Thorle. “Put your money on him, laddie,” he muttered, “I have.”
The first test, like the last one to be held in nearly two months’ time after an exhaustive series of challenges, was an obstacle course; unlike that other one, this was done on foot and it was a proper race. Finishing positions were important.
Rowan was very fast and he had endless stamina too, as the other Cadets found out when he si
mply ran them ragged. He swarmed up ropes and down trees, and he did the same thing in reverse; he crawled under wires and through tunnels, and swam through waterholes and the fast-flowing river; he sneezed and cursed his way through a long steep valley filled with magnificent wildflowers; and he ran up and over timber barricades, and skipped lightly over the log further down the river that gave everyone else pause and tipped quite a few into the water. He scampered up a tall tower that reminded him of the fire towers at home and rappelled down the outside; he did pushups and chinups and lifted weights and carried loads when required; he set up a campsite with a neat circle of stones for a firepit, a sturdy tent and a small trench for a latrine – a detail quite a few others forgot or didn’t bother with - then quickly made a surprisingly windproof shelter of a few well-placed branches that would protect his firepit and himself if he didn’t have a tent with him.
He vaulted over fallen logs and skirted patches of brambles without breaking stride; and he crossed the river again, hand over hand on the rope slung across it this time. He ran up and down hills and through mud; he slid down a steep gully on his backside, splashed through the little creek at the bottom and climbed the rocks on the other side, and he found his way through the maze with no trouble at all. He had a wonderful time, remembering how he and Glyn and Griff had done much the same sort of thing at home. Finally he loped up to the finish line almost ten minutes ahead of his nearest rival and dunked his head in a bucket of water.
“Well done, laddie!” Coll laughed as Rowan’s head emerged from the bucket, “That’s kicked their backsides for them!”
“Thank you, Sir,” Rowan said happily, “And maybe now they’ll stop looking down on Den Sorl as well.” He didn’t like the way his little garrison always seemed to be the butt of jokes. “I could have done without the bloody sneezeweed, though.”
“Don’t worry about all the ignorant buggers, Red. They’ll learn better manners by the end of all this,” Coll laughed again. Sneezeweed indeed. That was the Crimson Mountain Rose, a rare and prized and very beautiful plant that only grew in this part of Wirran. Still, sneezeweed aside, he’d known Rowan would do well. Nobody from Den Sorl had ever won the Silver Spurs, it was generally a Cadet from the bigger garrisons who took the honours, but after today’s effort he thought Rowan might just wipe the floor with the lot of them.
**********
“Bloody Hells, Hibbon! It’s just as well that lad of yours does look so damned young in the face,” Lieutenant Jacob of Den Siddon said.
Sword Master Hibbon looked at him in surprise. As far as he could see, Rowan’s youthful face had done nothing but make folk think he shouldn’t be in the competition.
“What makes you think that?” he asked dubiously.
“We’d be thinking you had a bloody ring-in otherwise!” Jacob laughed, “Young Red doesn’t mess about, does he? He has to be damned nearly Open-class with the sabre. Mind you, I think he’ll get too big to do really well in competition later on. You know as well as I do there are very, very few top-class swordsmen over six foot and most are a good bit less than that.”
Hibbon smiled and nodded slowly as they watched Rowan dancing around the competition circle with a Cadet from Den Marat. It was obvious that he wasn’t there just to make up the numbers. He was very focussed and very fast and he was very, very good. He made it look so easy that nobody was surprised when the other lad’s sword clanged to the ground in an embarrassingly short time.
“Mm… maybe. He’s bloody fast and strong now though. Runs all of us ragged back at Den Sorl. It must be the good training he gets out there in the Woopsies,” Hibbon said modestly, “He’s damned good with a bow, too. With anything, really.”
Jacob laughed. Sword Master Hibbon had been at Den Siddon until the Commandant had rubbed him up the wrong way once too often and he’d applied for a transfer to, of all places, Den Sorl. If there was one thing that Hibbon was very, very good at, it was training swordsmen. The proof of it was in front of them, quietly going about his business and seeing off all comers.
“Well, at least our lad Horst managed to hurl the spear and the javelin further than young Red did,” Jacob remarked.
Hibbon nodded again. The Cadet from Den Siddon, a big solid lad of nineteen, had indeed done that and good luck to him.
“Aye, he throws well. Got the shoulders for it,” Hibbon said absently, watching Rowan pick up the Den Marat lad’s sword, return it to him, and shake his hand. The two Cadets left the circle together and headed off to clean up and have a drink of water. There was nothing wrong with Rowan’s shoulders either, but he wasn’t as massively built as Horst and never would be. He’d be taller when he finished growing, though. Nobody but a forester could possibly think Rowan was small, Hibbon thought with a grin, and if he’d taken after his Pa’s side of the family he’d be making Horst look like a stripling.
**********
The assessors for the parts of the competition that involved horses were keen to see exactly what this outstanding young fellow from Den Sorl might be able to do, but reluctant to expose him to any unnecessary danger. Finally Trav managed to convince them that he really wouldn’t be hurt by any horse and they sent him to get two particular horses: Bast, the stallion that Lieutenant Jagger of Den Escher rode, and Sten, the mount of Lieutenant Jasper of Den Mohr. Both were evil-tempered bays that could probably give lessons to Devil and both despised the other for reasons best known to themselves.
Rowan walked to the nearer end of the horse lines where Sten was picketed on his own. He patted the stallion’s neck and stroked its muzzle as it snuffled at him.
“Hello, Sten,” he said quietly, “I’ll be back for you in a couple of minutes. Be good, now.”
Then he walked the length of the horse lines, with every horse turning to watch him. He patted a couple absently as he went past and finally got right to the end, where Bast was also picketed by himself. The stallion watched him carefully as he came closer.
“Hello, Bast,” Rowan murmured calmly, “It seems like you and Sten and I are the performing dogs today. Let’s show them what fine horses you both really are…” he allowed the stallion to sniff his hands, then patted its nose and led it back towards the assessors. Bast walked happily beside him, but baulked and snorted fiercely as they got closer to Sten.
“Hush, daft horse,” Rowan said, stroking its nose again gently, “You’re all right. And you, Sten, don’t put your ears back like that, please. There’s nothing for you two to be fighting over…” he reached for Sten’s rope and stood for a minute patting Sten with one hand and Bast with the other. Then he turned and walked back to the assessors, the stallions walking calmly on either side of him.
The assessors stared, then turned to Trav in amazement.
“I can’t believe those stallions haven’t tried to kill each other,” Jasper said, wide-eyed.
“Told you,” Trav laughed.
“And I can’t believe that lad’s still got all of his fingers, Trav. We’d better count them,” Sergeant Callan of Den Bolt said with a grin, “Let’s see him ride.”
Trav nodded and called to Rowan, “Ride Bast for us please, Rowan. Circles and things will do. I’ll hold Sten for you.”
“Aye, Sir,” Rowan said. He patted Bast’s neck, then leapt onto the stallion’s bare back. The horse snorted once, then strode forward to trot a flawless circle and figure-of-eight. Rowan stopped him foursquare, as he’d do in any riding test, then rode an equally flawless series of exercises at the canter.
“Great bloody Gods,” Jagger said softly, “I can’t handle the bugger that well myself, and certainly not with no saddle or bridle. He’d have thrown me long before this. Mind you, the lad’s got beautiful hands and a fine seat. I don’t suppose the Horse Master business has anything to do with that, has it?”
“No, I don’t think so. I believe young Rowan would be a fine rider no matter what else he might be,” Trav smiled again as Rowan brought the stallion back to the gaping assessors, “And now S
ten, please, Rowan.”
“Aye, Sir,” Rowan said again. He dismounted from Bast and handed the stallion over to Trav, then patted Sten again and vaulted onto the bay’s back and repeated the exercises.
“Great Beldar,” Jasper whispered as Sten seemed to almost dance through the exercises, “That damned horse doesn’t do that when I’m riding him… he hates doing circle work.”
Trav smiled at the stunned faces of his colleagues.
“So, will you let Rowan continue, or will you disqualify him?” he asked.
“Well, for what it’s worth, I think he should be allowed to continue,” Callan said slowly, “They let Sword Masters go in competitions, even the Champion’s Trophy, so why should we ban this lad?”
The assessors thought about it.
“Aye, you’re right, Callan,” Lieutenant Garth of Den Schoss said, “Besides, this young fellow’s kicked the other lads’ backsides in everything else, it wouldn’t be right not to give him his chance now.”
“Aye, that’s what I think too. He’s simply done too well not to let him finish, and truly, I want to see what else he can do,” Jagger said with a smile. He turned to Rowan, sitting quietly on Sten’s back, “Thanks, lad. You can keep going in the competition, but we’ll have to judge you a bit harder than the others. You can put the horses away again now, thanks.”
Rowan saluted him.
“Aye, Sir. Thank you, Sir,” he said, feeling very much like the performing dog that he’d suggested to Bast.
**********
7. “… a man has to look out for his fellow troopers.”
The testing of weapons prowess, both on foot and on horseback, was over and unusually there was a clear leader in the assessors’ eyes. Horsemaster Trav smiled happily to himself as he joined the half a dozen men who’d be assessing the Cadets’ horsemanship. There are some very, very good lads here, he thought, but Rowan would have to fall in a bucket and drown for any of them to best him on a horse, no matter how harshly he might be judged.
