Red Rowan: Book 1: Forester's son

by Helen Gosney

  Rowan’s face cleared.

  “That’s no hardship, Sir. I’d be honoured to stay here.”

  “Rowan lad, the honour is ours. We’ve never had a Silver Spurs winner here at Den Sorl, and now we have. And a Horse Master too. The whole garrison is proud of you, laddie. We know how hard you’ve worked and we know that you deserve this. Full Parade tomorrow.” And I hope the bloody Commandant chokes, Telli thought fiercely.

  “Full Parade, Sir? Then I’ll have to get the lads to come back so we get everyone done.”

  Telli smiled again and looked around the stable. Quite a few of the horses already had their manes plaited for the presentation, with their forelocks braided and a single thick neat braid running along their necks: the six-strand braid of the Forest Giant clan of Sian, Rowan’s clan.

  “Aye, Rowan,” he said, “They won’t have gone far. I’ll send them all back in.”

  He strode off to have further, private, words with the Commandant. Something about duty and respect, he thought.

  **********

  The next day, despite the conversation with Telli, the Commandant found himself impressed by the presentation of the little garrison: Immaculate dress uniform and horses beautifully presented, their harness gleaming, their coats glossy and their manes intricately braided. Yes, most impressive, he thought. And his own Den Siddon men had made an effort too. They’d braided their own horses’ manes in the same way, even done his mare as well. The Commandant patted her neck for a moment. An odd braid, he thought, trying to work it out and giving up. But it looked well, very well.

  He forced down a renewed surge of anger as the young Cadet walked his stallion forward in the centre of an honour guard of his four fellow Cadets. Gods, he sits that damned horse well, the Commandant thought grumpily. All the troopers did, of course, but there was something about this young fellow. Could he truly be a Horse Master? No, it simply wasn’t possible. The honour guard stopped and Rowan and Devil came on alone, stopping four-square in front of the Commandant. Rowan saluted smartly and the Commandant began his speech.

  It was much less long-winded than everyone had expected, but nobody minded that. The Commandant had congratulated Rowan on his achievement, congratulated the garrison as well, which must have almost choked him, and that was all that mattered. Rowan, of all people, wasn’t interested in hearing empty platitudes.

  “Thank you, Sir. I’m honoured to accept the Spurs from your hand,” Rowan said. Only his excellent reflexes had saved the day when the Commandant had almost dropped them. He gave the man a sunny smile, hoping that the old bastard wasn’t a mind reader. “I’d like to thank the officers and men of Den Sorl too, Sir. This is their award as much as it is mine.” He saluted again and backed Devil neatly into place among the other Cadets.

  The men of the garrison cheered him loudly. Red Rowan! They shouted. Red Rowan!

  He looked surprised for a moment.

  “What did you think they’d call you, you daft bugger?” Fess muttered as they returned to their place in the ranks.

  **********

  9. The Champions’ Trophy

  [nearly a year and a half has passed]

  The Champions’ Trophy is a competition for the best of the best, not limited to Guardsmen or Wirrans, though it seems to most often be won by someone who is one or the other – often both- of those. Still, it is open to anyone who proves themselves worthy. In some years, a few women have taken their place in the event and most have done well, though no woman has ever got past the Round of Eight. The format is fairly simple. Once every ten years one hundred and twenty-eight contestants from all over Yaarl gather for a contest in swordsmanship that runs over two weeks. As it was originally a military competition the weapon of choice is the sabre.

  The competition is held in the town or garrison from which the reigning Champion comes. He is invited back to the competition, but all others must prove their ability by winning various Tournaments, Trials and Trophies. The Rounds consist of matches of three rounds of seven minutes each between two swordsmen, the winner being the best-of three, who then proceeds to the next Round. The loser of course is eliminated. The final Round is of five rounds of ten minutes each. It takes a combination of skill, courage, discipline, stamina and sheer hard work to be successful. At this time, there had never been a dual Champion in the tournament’s five hundred year history. Some had come close, but none had ever managed to actually achieve it.

  Just to be in the competition itself is an achievement, and any swordsman would be proud to reach the Round of Sixteen, much less actually win the Trophy. The prize for the Champion is a blade made specifically for him by the g’Hakken clan of dwarves, a blade said to be worth more than its weight in diamonds and gold if one could merely buy one, and the honour associated with winning is immense.

  **********

  In the Round of Sixteen, Captain Johan Bendtsen of Den Siddon defeated his opponent fairly easily to progress to the next Round. Nobody was particularly surprised at this, after all Johan was the defending Champion and it was widely believed that he’d be the first man to win the Trophy twice. True, it had never been done in the Trophy’s five hundred year history, but really, this would probably be the year that finally saw it happen. At thirty-five, Johan was as strong and fit as he’d ever been and just as good with a sabre too; he was proving to be more than a handful for his opponents so far.

  He shook hands with his opponent and turned to see an old friend waiting to congratulate him.

  “Telli Carlson! You old rogue! What are you doing here?” he said as he hugged his friend.

  “Well, I’m partly here to see you again, Johan. Good win, by the way,” Telli grinned, “And I’m partly here to see how our lad goes too.”

  “Your lad? You’ve got someone in the Championship and he’s still going? He’s doing well, then. Den Sorl’s come into its own with that young fellow winning the Spurs… what? …Nearly two years ago?

  “Aye, it would be getting on for that long now, I suppose. Mind you, I think most of the folk here have forgotten about Den Sorl by now. They stare at the dog as if it’s going to bloody bite them.” He looked down at his garrison’s emblem of a sleeping dog on his chest and shrugged.

  “The world’s full of ignorant buggers, Telli. But I wish I’d been able to see some of the Spurs. It’s daft they won’t let any of the Captains go and watch,” Johan shook his handsome head, “Gerrit said the lad was outstanding. Looked very young, he said, but a mature lad and truly exceptional. And truly a Horse Master too. Incredible, just incredible. But Gods, the bloody Commandant was ropeable when he got back to Den Siddon. He ranted and whinged and carried on about it for ages.”

  Telli grimaced. The Commandant had indeed been most upset about Rowan’s age when he’d finally found out about it, and he’d let Telli know in no uncertain terms, at great length and at considerable volume.

  “Aye, the useless old bastard. He said Rowan shouldn’t have won because he was too young,” Telli said, irritated all over again as he thought about it, “Have you ever heard such nonsense?”

  “What did the lad’s age matter? He was a Cadet and he beat them all, fair and square. And Gerrit said he had them beaten before he got anywhere near a horse. Good luck to him,” Johan smiled at him, “And you’ve managed to find somebody for the Trophy now? But who…? I haven’t had a chance to see many of the other matches yet.”

  Telli smiled back at him, his good humour restored.

  “No? Then you should come and see this one. Our lad’s going to be your next opponent… and if he can get past you, my friend, he’ll be the next Champion.”

  “Who’s he up against today?”

  “A Sergeant Harrol…”

  “Harrol? Bisset Harrol of Crell?” At Telli’s nod, Johan shook his head. “He’s a damned good swordsman, is Harrol. An arrogant bugger, sneers a lot, but very good with a blade. And you think your lad might beat him?”

  “‘Will’ beat him, Johan, ‘will’ bea
t him,” Telli laughed. “Well, that’s what the men all say, and they’ve put their money where their mouths are too. Our lad is very good…”

  “What does Hibbon say?” Johan knew the Sword Master was nobody’s fool. He’d trained Johan to win the last Trophy and he’d damn nearly won it himself twenty years ago.

  “Hibbon’s put his money on him too, I believe,” Telli said casually.

  “Then you’re right, I’d better go and have a look at him. I’ve heard some sort of vague rumblings about a young lad from the Woopsies doing well, but I didn’t realise he was one of yours, Telli,” Johan said as they joined what had to be most of the garrison from the little backwater of Den Sorl. Oddly, there was a contingent of Siannen foresters there too. What the hell were they doing here, he wondered. He’d never seen foresters at any of the Tournaments and things before.

  “Aye, he’s ours all right. And ignore the stories you’ll have heard that he’s only got so far because his opponent had an off day,” Telli replied.

  Johan nodded.

  “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t be in the Tournament at all, let alone the Round of Sixteen, if he wasn’t worthy… Good Gods, Telli! He’s a Siannen forester! You didn’t tell me he’s a… a forester …” his voice trailed away as he saw a handsome, well muscled young man kiss a lovely redhaired forester lass and an older lady and then stride into the circle to stand straight and tall without fidgeting. The young fellow was completely unfazed by the calls of the rapidly growing crowd of onlookers as the referee droned through the rules of the contest. He can’t be the same lad, Johan thought, he simply can’t be. But then, how many foresters did Telli have tucked away in Den Sorl?

  Sergeant Harrol looked the lad up and down, sneered at his youth, and thought that this round shouldn’t take too long. He was right too. In a shockingly short time he found himself disarmed, with the Siannen lad holding a sabre to his chest in a rock-steady hand and nothing he, Harrol, could do about it. The second round of the match took slightly longer, but the result was the same and the great hope of Crell found himself bundled out of the Champions’ Trophy by a young trooper from a Wirran garrison in the back of beyond that most people hadn’t heard of. Neither Harrol, nor anyone in the crowd who wasn’t either Siannen or from Den Sorl, could believe it. Johan was as shocked as everyone else.

  “Gods, Telli, I’ve never seen anyone so fast and agile, especially a tall lad like that. Where the hell did you get this young fellow from? He can’t be the same lad who won the Spurs…” he shook his head slowly as Telli raised an eyebrow and grinned at him, “No… Is that truly the lad the old boy was in such a lather about? But how old is he? He only looks about… No, he can’t be…”

  The lad’s strong physique and sheer stamina belied his youthful face.

  Telli laughed at his friend’s bewilderment.

  “Aye, this is Rowan, the lad who upset the cursed Commandant with the Spurs. He looks younger than he is, poor lad. Even so, he’s only just eighteen… but you can see by his muscles and his strength that he’s worked damned hard for this. Well, you know how hard it is if anyone does. Amazing, isn’t he?”

  Johan still couldn’t believe what his eyes had shown him. He knew the Crellian sergeant to be a very good swordsman: fast, fit and strong, but he’d been made to look second-rate… no, third-rate… by this young Siannen. A Siannen, and a forester at that. He simply couldn’t believe it.

  “Truly amazing. I’m… well, I’m not sure what I am… stunned, I think. I really thought Harrol would wipe the floor with him when I saw how young he is,” Johan laughed happily, “But it was your lad that did the wiping. Gods! I’ve never seen or heard of such a one-sided bout in the Round of Sixteen. And you say I face him next?”

  “Aye, Johan. But I’m sure that won’t be as one-sided as this was,” Telli grinned at him. “I truly think whoever wins your bout will go on and win the Trophy. In fact I think I might have to have a small wager on both of you for the Championship, now, before they cut the odds. No offence meant to you or your kin, as young Rowan would say.”

  “None taken.” Johan smiled again. “I still can’t believe how fast and strong that lad is… And what about this business of being a Horse Master? And what in the Nether Hells is a Siannen forester doing in the Wirran Guard?”

  “Ah, well… there’s a bit of a story there, with joining the Guard. Come and I’ll introduce you to young Rowan and his family and I’ll tell you the story later… Oh, and as for the other, I can’t explain it and neither can Rowan. All I can tell you is the lad’s probably even better with a horse than he is with a blade.”

  Johan stared at Telli as if he’d gone mad.

  “Truly?”

  “Oh, aye. He can do anything with a horse; even the feistiest stallion is like a little lamb around him. ’Tis strange, I know. But all the same, he hates mounted swordplay. He’s damned good at it, mind you, but he hates it. He worries about the horses… Didn’t your assessor tell you? Anyway, come and meet his family. The lads from the garrison have sort of adopted them. They’re fine folk and I think you’ll get on well with his father, Rhys.”

  Johan looked at him questioningly.

  “Aye, he’s a good man, is Rhys. He’s a woodcutter and you know, he truly didn’t want young Rowan to join the Guard… but still he came with him all the way through the Dogleg Pass to Wirran because they believed the training was better here… the lad was only fourteen…” Telli grinned at his friend’s surprise. “He’d never held a sword in his life, and I tossed him mine… it came to his hand like it belonged there. Truly, he’s a natural swordsman. And of course he was strong and fit from working in the forest… and, well, only a forester could possibly think he’s a small lad. I simply thought he was too good to send all that way home again, and damn me, I was right. He kicked their backsides in the Spurs and he’s just done it again now…” He looked across at the happy group of Siannens and Guardsmen. “It’s funny, you know, Rowan and his father don’t look much alike apart from their eyes, but truly, when you get to know them a bit, they seem as alike as two peas in a pod.”

  “Which one’s his father?”

  “Guess!”

  Johan looked across at the Siannens. A lovely young red-haired lass was hugging Rowan as the men crowded around them. They all seemed to be very big men, most of them at least six and a half feet tall and built like the proverbial brick privy. A couple of redheads were perhaps a handspan shorter and less heavily built, like Rowan, but no. Ah, there he was. A very big man, dark-haired and heavily muscled, but not as loud as his kinsmen, and he moved with the same effortless, oddly feline grace the young swordsman had. He slipped through the others and stood next to Rowan with one hand on his shoulder.

  “That one,” Johan said.

  “Aye, that’s him. That’s Rhys. I thought you’d see it. Now come and meet him.”

  **********

  In the Round of Eight the surprise packet of the Tournament, the lad from the little Wirran garrison that hardly anyone had heard of, faced the defending Champion, Captain Johan Bendtsen of Den Siddon, considered by many to be likely to become the first Dual Champion ever.

  Most of the big crowd of onlookers thought the young Siannen would be overawed and overcome by nervousness in this match, but he’d shown no sign of tension at all. His unusually coloured eyes had sparkled with excitement as he bowed formally to his opponent and then his concentration on the job in hand had been total.

  The two were surprisingly evenly matched, the Captain’s experience offset by the youngster’s blinding speed and sheer courage. They’d danced back and forth in the circle for several minutes when the lad’s foot slipped and Johan’s sabre tore down his right forearm. The crowd had gasped in horror, and Rowan muttered something that caused the watching Siannens to gawp at him and then laugh quietly among themselves. They wouldn’t explain what it meant to anyone else, just laughed again. Rowan simply tossed his sabre to his left hand, quite prepared to fight on. The referee an
d judges had other ideas though, and awarded the first round to Johan.

  Unwilling to take a potion that might impair his reflexes for the next round, Rowan sat white-faced, biting his lip as the healer stitched the gash that ran from his elbow almost to his wrist, but he stood ready to continue when the next round was called. There was a spirited argument between the referee, who thought he should stop the match, and Rowan’s second, Sword Master Hibbon of Den Sorl, who disagreed strongly. Johan looked at the tall, determined lad standing facing him and stepped around the argument in the centre of the circle.

  “Are you really sure you’re all right, lad?” he said quietly to Rowan, “I’m truly sorry that happened, you’re a damned good swordsman, but there’s no shame in retiring when you’re hurt… and you know I can’t go easy on you …”

  Rowan saluted him carefully with his bandaged arm and looked him in the eye.

  “Aye, Sir, I’m fine,” he said, “It looks worse than it is. It’s a bit bloody and it hurts a bit, but it’s not that deep and there’s nothing wrong with my other arm. And truly, Sir, if I thought you’d be going easier on me, I’d withdraw right now.”

  They smiled at each other and Johan turned to those behind him who were still arguing. The three judges had weighed into the dispute now, two for and one against continuing the match, and the Den Sorl troopers were loudly supporting their lad.

  “When you’re ready, we’d like to continue this match, please,” he said.

  And so the match had continued. Certainly there was nothing wrong with Rowan’s other arm and it was an enthralling contest, later voted as easily the best in the entire tournament. At the finish of the third round, it was the young Siannen who would continue to the Round of Four. Captain Johan was the first to congratulate him.

  “It’s a long time since anyone’s done that to me, lad. You’ve beaten me from one down, and you’ve run me bloody ragged and disarmed me into the bargain,” Johan said, laughing as Rowan tried to apologise to him for doing it, “Don’t be daft. Don’t apologise for kicking my backside like that. You deserved to win.”