by Helen Gosney
“Come on, laddie, we’re not going in there to be scratched and bloody prickled. Nobody said we couldn’t go around it, did they? ‘Tis a bit further though, Devil lad, so you’ll get your chance to run,” he said with a laugh.
The stallion pricked its ears and picked up the pace as they skirted the brambles and things that were giving the others so much trouble. He slid down a bank on his haunches, splashed into a surprisingly deep waterhole, swam when he had to, and galloped on, headed for the checkpoint.
“Gods, that lad can ride well,” the assessor from Den Mellar said from his vantage point on the top of the hill, “He’s bloody fearless. That damned bank is steep.”
“Aye, and he’s the only one with enough brains to go around those cursed brambles,” the fellow from Den Bissen laughed. The Whispering, unbelievable as it was, surely hadn’t given the lad courage and a good dose of common sense.
“Ah, look, a couple of the others are following him,” another man said, fascinated by the trial. It was the first time he’d officiated and he hoped he’d be asked again. “Oh dear. Not doing so well down that bank though.” He winced as a Cadet went over his horse’s head and landed in the water with a resounding splash. The horses behind baulked as they saw him splashing about.
Meanwhile Rowan and Devil galloped serenely on, perfectly happy as they made their way around the checkpoints. Devil was fast and he could jump like a stag and run all day when he wanted to. He wanted to today, with Rowan riding him. He flew over another huge log, galloped down another hill, hopped over the creek and then slowed to trot sedately along a zigzag track through sticky mud. At the end of this Rowan slid from the saddle and cleaned the mud from Devil’s hooves so he wouldn’t slip, then he led the horse through a pile of boulders where the footing was steep and rocky and treacherous.
The Den Mellar man nodded to himself. A good sensible lad, this one, he thought, and he’s giving his horse a bit of a breather at the same time. Mind you, that damned stallion can probably run like that all day. A magnificent looking beast, and that young fellow can do anything with it, but it had been more than a handful for the other Cadets. Some of the other horses had been feisty too, of course, the best troop horses were; they’d thrown off their share of riders too, but not like this big black thing. And the lad was riding it in a simple snaffle today. Nothing wrong with that, of course, but… well, the Lieutenant from Den Mellar didn’t think he’d like to try it. He wouldn’t like to try getting the horse – any horse- through those rocks either. The Horse Master business was fascinating, even if it was completely incomprehensible. The young fellow himself couldn’t explain it.
Rowan had come to the end of the rocks and found himself more or less where he’d thought he would. He paused for a moment to plot his course to the finish and he patted Devil happily as the horse snuffled at his hands.
“Good boy, Devil. You’ve done well. Ha! We’ve both done bloody well, we’ve got plenty of time and only one token to get, and we’ve still got our despatch bag too.” He swung up into the saddle again. “Come on, laddie. Let’s finish this.”
He headed straight for the last checkpoint. Devil sailed over the creek again. How many bloody times have we crossed that today, Rowan wondered absently. It didn’t matter; Devil was still strong and as brave as ever. They jumped over a low palisade, then up onto a broad grassy bank and down the other side, splashed through deeper water and cantered up to the checkpoint. The two men there smiled at him as he halted Devil and saluted smartly.
“Cadet Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist of Den Sorl, Sirs. A good day to you,” he said politely, as he had at all the other checkpoints he’d passed.
“And to you, laddie,” one of them said.
“You’re doing well, Cadet,” the second man said, “You’re nearly there. Have you still got your despatches?”
“Aye, Sir,” Rowan replied, patting the small satchel he’d strapped snugly to his chest.
“Good lad. Here’s your token. Off you go then.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
Rowan urged Devil on and the stallion leapt forward and stretched out willingly to gallop the last mile or so. They passed several Cadets who hadn’t paced their horses well and who found themselves travelling at a slow trot at best.
“Two more jumps, Devil, then up that damned big steep hill, and we’re there. Good lad,” Rowan said softly as the stallion gathered itself and sailed over a solid looking fence. It strode to the next obstacle, another big pine log that it cleared with contemptuous ease, and headed for the hill. Out of the corner of his eye Rowan saw something that wasn’t right and he turned Devil around. A Cadet was sitting on the ground cursing vigorously as he pulled off one of his boots, and a little further away a weary bay gelding stood, head down, favouring a foreleg.
“Are you all right?” Rowan called as he cantered back. He saw the boar of Den Tissot on the other lad’s chest.
“No, truly, I’m bloody not all right at all,” the Cadet said morosely as he stared at his foot, “Rags and I took a hell of a fall at that last bloody great log and I’ve hurt my ankle. I can’t stand on it. Serves me right, I suppose, I should have gone around the cursed thing…”
“Bloody hells. Let me see.”
“No, no. You have to keep going or you’ll lose too much time.”
“So I’ll lose a bit of time. It doesn’t matter,” Rowan shrugged, “Now, let me see it. Perhaps I can help. And did you say your horse is called Rags?” At the other lad’s nod, he called the horse’s name softly. The bay raised its head, pricked its ears, and limped carefully to Rowan.
“Good lad, Rags, I’ll look at you in a moment,” Rowan said, stroking the horse’s nose and then kneeling beside the young fellow on the ground. He was a couple of years older than Rowan of course, and a bit taller.
“You’re the… the Whisperer. You’re the one they call Red,” the other Cadet said as he took in Rowan’s long auburn braid and the sleeping dog emblazoned on his chest. He’d never even heard of Den Sorl until this young lad had shown them all how to be a Guardsman and he’d never believed in Horse Masters or bloody Whisperers either.
Rowan smiled as he carefully looked at the other lad’s ankle.
“Aye, I am, but my name’s Rowan. Hmm… ‘tisn’t broken, I don’t think, but it looks like you’ve wrenched it pretty badly. ‘Tis already swollen and you’re going to have a hell of a bruise.” He tore a long strip from the bottom of his shirt and bound the offending ankle as best he could.
“Dammit. Oh, my name’s Cade, and I thank you,” the other lad said, “But you must keep going. They’ll send someone out to find those of us who don’t get back. Eventually.”
Rowan raised an eyebrow at that, and shook his head slightly, but he said nothing as he checked the bay gelding’s foreleg.
“Rags has got a bit of a cut here, and that shoe’s loose. He’s had a bad fright, poor horse, and he’s tired and sore and feeling sorry for himself, but he’ll be all right with a good rest. You shouldn’t ride him now, though.” He thought for a moment. “Do you think you can stand if I help you, Cade?”
Cade stared at him.
“Maybe…” he said doubtfully, ‘But…”
“Good. Up you come then.” Rowan hauled Cade to his feet and helped him get his balance. “Now, up you get onto Devil, he can carry us both. I’ll give you a leg-up.”
Cade’s eyes widened further.
“Isn’t that the bloody horse that nobody could ride? I’m not getting on him. Besides, you need to get going…”
“Cade, I’m not going to just leave you here, so get used to the idea. And you just saw me riding him; I’ve been riding him all bloody day. You’ll be fine and he’ll be fine…” he turned his head suddenly as he heard hoofbeats coming towards him from the wrong direction, “Ah, here comes your rescuer now, I think, unless one of the other lads is totally lost.”
“Are you all right, lads?” the healer said, sliding down from his horse.
“�
��Aye, I am, Sir, but Cade here’s hurt his ankle and Rags is lame,” Rowan replied.
“Rags? Oh… the horse… don’t worry, Cade. You can come back with me,” the healer said kindly as he quickly checked the bandaged ankle. The other young fellow had done a good job, he thought.
Cade nodded gloomily. It’d mean that he’d be disqualified of course. And he’d come so close to finishing…
“No!” Rowan said quickly. “Er, your pardon, Sir, but Devil can carry us both. He’s still got plenty left.”
Cade looked at Devil warily as the stallion put its ears back and bared its teeth.
Rowan laughed, patted the horse’s nose, and said softly, “Surely a Den Tissot man’s not afraid of a horse?”
Cade drew himself up as best he could without overbalancing.
“Of course not! But…”
“Do you want to finish or not? Good. Stop bloody messing about then. Ready? Here’s your boot too, you’ll need that later.”
Before he quite knew what was happening, Cade found himself up on Devil’s back with Rowan in front of him. The stallion sidled unhappily, snorting and tossing its head, but it didn’t buck and it settled as Rowan stroked its neck.
“Have you got your despatch bag, Cade?” the healer said, trying not to laugh at the lad’s worried face, “It’d be a shame to leave it behind now, when you’re so close to the finish.”
“Aye, it’s here… no, dammit! It’s tied to Rags’ saddle.”
“That’s all right, I’ll get it,” Rowan said. He called Rags to him again, leaned over and untied the satchel and handed it back to Cade. “Tie it on your belt. Then if you fall off and I don’t happen to notice, you’ll still have it,” he added helpfully.
Cade stared at him again, but did as he suggested. He realised he’d just seen some of the fabled Whispering, not that Rowan had actually done anything other than simply call Rags’ name. The horse could be a bugger to catch though, and it wouldn’t come to him just now. Bloody strange, he thought, but handy too.
“Thanks Rowan, but how did you…?” he said.
Rowan shrugged. He wasn’t about to try and explain it now. He couldn’t, anyway.
“Horses like me,” he said casually. It was the truth, after all. “Now, hold on tight, Devil might still decide to buck. I don’t think he will, but he’s got a mind of his own…”
“I’ll take your horse back, Cade. Don’t worry, he’ll be all right,” the healer smiled at them as the two Cadets sorted themselves out and retrieved the despatch bag from the bay’s saddle. He quickly grabbed the horse’s reins as it tried to follow them. “Good luck, lads.” He hoped they hadn’t lost too much time.
“Thank you, Sir,” they said, saluted, and then Rowan urged the stallion into a good strong canter.
Cade relaxed a bit as Devil settled into its stride, but he was still worried.
“Rowan… you’ve lost too much time, you’ll lose points,” he said.
“Let me worry about that, Cade. I think we’ll just have to use the shortcut…”
“What! What bloody shortcut?”
Rowan shrugged.
“You’ll see…”
**********
The last marshall was most surprised to see the big black stallion trot up the steep side of the hill, not far from where he stood at the finish line. It was carrying one lad and another was running beside it. He wondered who they were for a moment, and then he saw the runner’s long braid of hair swinging behind him with each long easy stride. He nodded thoughtfully. The lad leapt aboard at the top of the hill and they trotted the last hundred yards or so towards the finish, the horse carrying its double burden well. They’d undoubtedly saved a lot of time by coming up that way, rather than the much longer and much easier way, but it wasn’t usual. But then it wasn’t usual for two lads to come in together like that either.
Rowan halted Devil at the finish point and patted the stallion’s neck.
“Good lad, Devil, thank you,” he murmured and then he turned to the final official and saluted.
“Good day to you, Sir,” he said, “Cadet Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist of Den Sorl and… er… Cadet Cade from, um, Den Tissot reporting, Sir. We have despatches for you.”
“Cadet Cade Pendtsen, Sir, Den Tissot,” Cade spoke up quickly as he saluted.
The marshall, Lieutenant Harle of Den Mellar, stared at them both in amazement and then pulled himself together. He tried not to laugh as the Den Tissot lad almost handed over a boot instead of the despatch satchel. A boot, he thought. What the hell…?
“Thank you, lads. You’re cutting it a bit fine, but you’re still under the time limit. The bugle hasn’t blown yet. Probably just as well you came up the, er, short way. Well done,” he said, “You can put your horse over there…”
“Aye, Sir. Thank you,” Rowan said, “Is there a healers’ tent up here somewhere, Sir, please?”
“A healers’ tent?” Harle took in the sight of Cade’s bandaged ankle and realised what’d happened. It explained the boot too. “Aye, of course there is. Just over there, lad…”
“Thank you, Sir.”
Harle shook his head in disbelief as Devil carried the lads to the healers’ tent and stood quietly while Rowan helped Cade inside.
“But… but what about Rags?” Cade asked plaintively.
“Don’t worry, Cade, I’ll look after Devil, and then I’ll find your Horsemaster and tell him what’s happened. If I can’t find him, I’ll take care of Rags myself when the healer brings him in,” Rowan said.
“Thank you, Rowan. You didn’t have to stop and help me, but you did… I’m truly grateful I could finish the course. It means a lot to me. Thank you…” Cade said slowly.
Rowan smiled at him.
“’Tis all right, Cade. I couldn’t just leave you there, hurt like that, could I?”
Cade shrugged.
“Others did, Rowan. Three others went past me…”
“Then they and their garrisons are shamed by it.”
The notes of the bugle rang out, marking the end of the allotted time for the course. Anyone finishing after this, and there’d be several, would be penalised.
“Bloody Hells! We really did cut it fine!” Cade exclaimed in horror.
Rowan laughed.
“Aye, we did! But we got here in time. They wouldn’t have given us extra points for getting in ten minutes earlier, would they?”
“No, I suppose not.”
**********
Rowan led Devil over to the other horses, unsaddled him and rubbed him down, then walked him up and down as he cooled off. Sergeant Will of Den Tissot found him as he walked Devil and they spoke together; then Rowan gave the horse some water, making sure it didn’t drink too much too quickly, had a drink himself and plunged his head in the bucket for a moment. Finally he patted Devil again and went to join the rest of the Cadets who were watching the last of their fellows out on the course. A couple of them had got hopelessly lost and would be rescued by Sergeant Coll and some of the other men and two more were walking tiredly towards the hill, leading their exhausted horses. Another was making his weary way up the switchback track and would finish soon.
“Why didn’t you give your horse to the ostler?” one of them asked curiously.
Rowan stared at him in surprise.
“We don’t have ostlers at Den Sorl,” was all he said. It was true, but it would have made no difference if they did.
Horsemaster Trav came over to him and said quietly, “Well done, Rowan. I’m proud of you, and proud of that bugger Devil as well.”
Rowan smiled at him.
“Thank you, Sir. I’m proud of him too. There were some damned big jumps and things out there, but he never hesitated.”
Trav smiled back at him. That damned horse would probably turn handsprings if you asked him to, he thought. Even so, he knew that that had little to do with Rowan’s good showing today; it hadn’t helped him not to get lost, or navigate around the course so sensibly, or helped
him to pace his horse and himself so well. And it certainly hadn’t helped him decide to help that other lad. No, Rowan had won the Spurs on his own merits, and today’s excellent effort had only confirmed what the assessors had already known.
He couldn’t wait to get back to Den Sorl with the news. The entire garrison would be thrilled and proud of their quiet young Cadet. Of course Rowan would be pleased and proud too, but Trav knew there was no chance this success would go to the lad’s head. And he couldn’t wait for the Commandant to present the Spurs to Rowan… would he have apoplexy when he finally saw Rowan, saw how young he was, and a forester into the bargain, or maybe he’d be so upset he couldn’t speak? That’d be a blessing, anyway: the Commandant’s boring, long-winded speeches were legendary. Maybe he’d be so angry he’d drop the damned Spurs… someone would be sure to run a clandestine book on it, he thought happily.
**********
8. “… there could well be a bloody problem!”
The Commandant clattered through the gates of Den Sorl at the head of an honour guard of fifteen troopers, quickly returning the salute of the men lined up to greet him. He was a relatively short, stocky man with thin, greying sandy coloured hair, cold pale blue eyes and an irritatingly nasal voice. He was a man who seldom saw the good in anyone or anything and he was universally unpopular with the men under his command.
Great Bloody Hells, here at last, he thought to himself. He wasn’t used to spending so much time in the saddle now and this little garrison near the Sleeping Dogs was almost the most far-flung in all of Wirran. And at least there were a few towns and things to provide a comfortable night’s sleep on the way to other garrisons that were more than a few days’ travel from Den Siddon, but out this way… And he didn’t like the Captain here either. Telli Carlson was a damned good trooper and really he should be at Den Siddon as Johan’s 2i/c, but no. He’d turned his back on that for this bloody little place out in the Woopsies.
