Red Rowan: Book 1: Forester's son

by Helen Gosney

  He laughed again as he saw the contingent of joyful Siannens standing on the sidelines among most of the garrison of Den Sorl.

  He watched Rowan run off to his family and kinsmen, as excited now as any other lad would be. Truly a remarkable young man, he thought. And a hell of a good swordsman. I might just have a small wager on him for the final… I’ll probably get good odds on him if I’m quick about it. Everyone here except his kin and his garrison seem to think he’s only made it this far on sheer good luck and all of his opponents being unaccountably hopeless. More fools them.

  He hurried off to the bookmakers and stood in line to place his bet. The only ones who seemed to have any confidence in the young Siannen who’d just soundly beaten the reigning Champion were some cheerful Den Sorl men and himself. How amazing, he thought, but he was delighted with the odds on offer and wagered quite a bit more than he’d intended. He went to clean himself up, still thinking about his opponent. Hmm… he’d do well at Den Siddon, very well indeed, but perhaps not just yet. Let him get experience in a lot of different garrisons and then he’d see… he doubted his opinion would change though.

  Someone bumped into him. Johan was about to blister their ears for them when he realised it was Telli Carlson.

  “Sorry, Johan,” Telli said with a grin, “Didn’t mean to knock you over!”

  “Telli, you clumsy bugger. I damned nearly fell into the bucket of water.”

  “Well, we can’t have that… but Johan, I’m truly sorry young Rowan’s beaten you, only…” he tried not to grin again.

  “…Only you’ve just cleaned up the bookmakers again!” Johan finished for him. “Well, it’s no disgrace to be beaten by a swordsman like that, no matter how young he is, and I don’t think I’ll be the last one he beats in this tournament either. But how old did you tell me he is?” Johan was finding it hard to reconcile such a youthful face with such a prodigious talent.

  Telli looked a little abashed.

  “Ah, well… He’s eighteen, just, and he’s a second-year Trooper. The Commandant couldn’t forbid his promotion after the Spurs, but he had to stay with us until he turned eighteen. Ha! That was no damned hardship for any of us. You’re not planning on stealing him from me, are you?” He knew very well that his friend was thinking just that. “I know he’s ready for another posting, but I’d thought…”

  “Telli, I’d take him in a heartbeat! Any Captain would. But no, not just yet I don’t think. It’s better for him to get experience in as many places as he can…” He looked at his friend again. “Telli, I just can’t believe how bloody good he is. I’ve faced some excellent swordsmen in my time, and I thought I was doing all right today too, but he was just… so fast, so well balanced, and totally fearless …it was incredible. I’m sorry I cut him though. Truly, I didn’t think he should have come out for the second round, but he said he was fine… And then, damn me, he uses his bloody left hand just as well as the right one. I couldn’t believe it. He was just… astounding.”

  Telli nodded, his face serious for a moment.

  “Aye, he’s that all right. Nobody in the garrison can beat him now, even Sword Master Hibbon barely holds his own. And I’ve lost count of the number of times he’s thrashed me.” Telli laughed. “He always apologises for it though. They’re polite folk, these Siannens.”

  “Ha! He apologised to me too after the match. He’s a fine lad. How old was the youngest man to win this, Telli? Do you know?” Johan knew that Telli was interested in history, especially the history of the Champions’ Trophy, and he was no slouch with a blade either. He’d finished in the Round of Four himself, ten years ago.

  “Twenty-one. About seventy years ago. A lad from Den Shallar, Yole Abbeson.”

  “Truly? Well, I think that might change in the next few days. I’ve… er… just had a small wager on him in the Final…”

  “Good. You’ll get better odds now than when he wins his Round of Four bout. It’s funny how people still seem to think he shouldn’t be here, isn’t it?” Telli laughed at the stupidity of people who couldn’t see what was right under their noses. “They’re all idiots, truly. I know he makes it look easy, but he’s truly worked damned hard for this. If I hear anyone else say that he only won because so-and-so had an off day, I’ll punch them in the nose. Still, I think it only makes him more determined to do well. He’d have been happy to just win his first one or two matches, but with everyone saying he shouldn’t be here and he’s too young, too inexperienced, well… he’s a stubborn young bugger.”

  **********

  10. “…we can’t be calling the new Champion by a dog’s name, can we?”

  The final of the Champions’ Trophy drew a very big crowd of spectators, as it always did. Rowan kissed his sister and his Gran, smiled at his father and friends, and strode into the circle. He noticed a small contingent of dwarves at the front of the crowd, the same ones that had been watching the matches of the Round of Four so closely. The tallest of them winked at him encouragingly and wished him luck, making Rowan smile for a moment. Then he tossed his long auburn braid back over his shoulder and stood impassively waiting for his opponent to stop playing his silly games and get his backside into the circle.

  He’d never thought that he’d actually get this far, would have been happy to win a single match, and certainly nobody but his family and garrison had imagined that he’d do so well, but oddly it had been all of the doubters who’d made him more determined to succeed. He’d shown them that he deserved his place in the competition, he thought, and he’d proved to them that a Siannen forester… er, Guardsman, from a tiny Wirran garrison near the Sleeping Dogs mountains was as good as any of them in spite of his youth and inexperience. Better than most of them, in fact, he thought happily. And where was this cursed man who was supposed to be about to thrash him and put him back in his box? Did he think he could keep everyone waiting all damned day? He’d have to start doing something to keep warm if the idiot didn’t hurry up.

  The Bettran referee was thinking the same thing.

  “Move about a bit, lad. Don’t get cold while his magnificence combs his hair. That’s how injuries happen,” he said quietly to Rowan.

  “Aye, Sir,” Rowan replied. He smiled, his eyes sparkling with mischief as he turned a couple of backflips in place followed by a series of neat somersaults and cartwheels and tumbles. He hoped the referee wouldn’t be offended, but it would keep his muscles warm and truly, everyone was taking themselves too seriously. Yes, it was the Final of the Champions’ Trophy and he respected that, but at the end of the day the forest would keep growing and the sun, moons and stars would still follow their well-worn tracks.

  Paul Williton, the referee, was careful to keep a straight face but he badly wanted to applaud the lad as his friends and family were. He’d been a very good swordsman himself, had Paul, until he’d injured his shoulder badly. He wished he’d had the Siannen lad’s very handy talent of being able to use both hands equally well, but unfortunately no. All the same, he certainly knew a damned good swordsman when he saw one, and that was him gracefully turning front and back flips and walking about on his hands over there.

  Of course Paul was strictly impartial in this bout, but he truly thought the lad would win today. He’d refereed a couple of his early bouts, privately been as sceptical as everyone else, and been astounded by the lad’s sheer ability. And the young Siannen had a good temperament too, Paul thought; unflappable and respectful in spite of the mutterings he could hear in the crowd behind him – after all, what was he supposed to do, seize up while this other fellow tried to unsettle him? And best of all, like most Siannens, the young man had no arrogance at all… unlike his damned opponent. What the hell did he think he was doing, keeping them all hanging about like this? Ah, here he was at last, the conceited bugger. All right, my lad, he thought. I’ll have you. If it wasn’t the Final I’d have ruled you a no-show.

  Goff Halvorssen swaggered into the circle. He was a lieutenant from Den Ree, a typical
Wirran: tall, well built, with cropped blonde hair and piercing blue eyes. He was a handsome man who unfortunately was well aware of the fact, and he was very confident of winning the Trophy today. He scowled and gritted his teeth as he submitted to the referee’s spirited dressing down, then made a perfunctory apology to him and the judges and looked down his nose at the Siannen lad now standing straight and still opposite him. So this was the young fellow there’d been such a fuss about, Goff thought with a sneer. A good-looking lad, with his dark auburn hair and his strange mottled green-brown eyes; good broad shoulders and a strong lean body, a left-hander too, which could be tricky; but so young, and from a garrison that nobody’d ever heard of before now. He looked at the sleeping dog emblazoned on the other’s chest and sneered again as he touched the famous emblem of his own garrison, the rose. No, the Trophy was as good as his.

  Two rounds later, panting for breath, he was looking at his young opponent in a very different light. Goff knew that he’d have to do something very special indeed to somehow salvage anything at all from this best-of-five-rounds match. The young Siannen was astoundingly fast, very strong and fit in spite of the gashed arm he’d suffered a few days ago and totally fearless into the bargain.

  Less than five minutes later, the crowd acknowledged the new Champion with stunned silence for a few seconds. Then the cheering and applause broke out. Delighted Siannens, Den Sorl men and those who knew anything about swordplay mobbed Rowan as he shook hands with Goff and the referee and the judges before leaving the circle.

  Rowan finally got away from the crowd of wellwishers who’d descended on him and stood apart with his true supporters: his family, kinsmen and the men from his garrison. They talked and laughed quietly among themselves as they waited for the formal speeches to begin. There seemed to be a bit of a delay as the dignitaries were still assembling and getting over their shock; certainly nobody looked to be in any hurry to get on with it.

  Rowan’s Gran suddenly looked at him closely and frowned.

  “Rowan, you ratbag. You can’t go up there looking like that. Go and make yourself a bit presentable, laddie,” she said quickly

  Rowan looked surprised for a moment, then he looked down at himself. No, perhaps his sweaty competition singlet and breeches underneath his uniform jacket wouldn’t do, he thought.

  “Sorry, Gran. You’re right. I’d better get a move on, I suppose… it’s just…”

  “They won’t bite you, you daft bugger. Go!” Rhys laughed at him, “Glyn, go with him, please, and hurry him up a bit.”

  “You go too, Fess, and give him a bit of a hand and don’t let him get sidetracked,” Telli spoke up. “You’re the Champion now, Rowan lad, they can’t start without you.”

  And they haven’t got very damned far, even with me, Rowan thought unhappily as he sat quietly on the ground behind the platform holding the judges and dignitaries while he waited for them to finish their interminable droning so he could get his speech over and done with. He’d washed quickly, dressed in his uniform, presented himself, and… waited. For the first time in the tournament he looked and felt nervous as he polished a silver button with his sleeve. He’d been all right when Glyn and Fess had been with him to keep him company, but an officious little man had sent them off and left him here alone. He heard a very slight sound behind him. He flowed to his feet and turned in one smooth graceful movement to face whoever it was coming up to him. A dwarf stood smiling up at him, the same one that Rowan had noticed watching his last two matches very closely indeed, the one who’d wished him luck.

  He was tall as dwarfs go, almost five feet tall, with laughing dark eyes and dark shaggy hair. He was clad in comfortable leathers not unlike a Siannen forester’s garb and like all males of his race he was strongly built and sported an intricately plaited beard. Rowan knew that the plaiting indicated the dwarf’s clan and family in much the same way as Siannen braiding did, but he’d never seen this particular weave before.

  “You foresters have got sharp hearing, lad. Nearly as good as us dwarfs, or a troll,” the dwarf said in a soft deep voice. He looked at Rowan’s anxious face and tense body and thought he was damned lucky not to have been met by the lad’s sabre. “Don’t worry, lad, you’ll be all right,” he said kindly, “But they’ll be waffling on for a bit longer yet, I fear. Well done, by the way. I’ve been watching you in the circle… you move very well and you’ve got beautiful balance. You’re damned fast too. You won the lads and me quite a tidy sum.”

  “Thank you, Sir. I’m glad you did so well out of it,” Rowan said politely, “I’m Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist, of the Forest Giant clan and, er, Den Sorl garrison, Sir.” He looked up at the large gentleman holding forth on the stage and sighed. “Gods, I wish they’d just get on with it.”

  He held out his callused swordsman’s hand. The dwarf took it in his own equally callused one and shook it cheerfully.

  “I be Findarel, son of Geldarel, Master Smith of the g’Hakken, lad. Pleased to make your acquaintance. We’ll be getting to know each other well in the next few weeks, while I’m making you a decent sabre to replace that thing you’ve been wielding. Wielding it very well, mind you, but still…”

  Rowan tried not to stare at him in shock. A g’Hakken dwarf. No wonder he hadn’t recognised the plaiting of his beard. The g’Hakken were a reclusive people, quietly working away to produce superb and astoundingly beautiful swords and other weapons for those they considered worthy to receive them and other, merely splendid swords for those who were not. Rowan hoped he hadn’t offended him; the g’Hakken were known to be generally prickly and difficult with other races and they were said to be sticklers for the social niceties. This one seemed friendly enough though.

  “Master Findarel, I… I’m honoured to meet you, Sir,” he said in careful Dwarven, “But it shames me that I don’t know the proper way to address you…”

  Findarel’s eyes widened at Rowan’s cautious, correct Dwar. Few other races bothered to learn it, and those who did were generally hopeless at it. This lad’s accent was good and his phrasing almost perfect.

  “You speak the Dwarven Tongue?” he said in amazement.

  “Aye, Sir… but only a little, I’m sorry to say. There were a couple of families of the g’Farrien clan at home, blacksmiths they were, but they spoke Siannen much better than I ever learned to speak Dwar. I don’t know much more than this, to be truthful,” Rowan thought for a moment, “I’d be… um… struggling to say much more in it. Anything that’s polite, anyway.”

  Findarel grinned at him. He liked this tall, quiet young man, so unlike other Trophy winners he’d known who’d been full of themselves and completely insufferable, with the exception of that fellow Johan who’d won last time. He’d particularly enjoyed the lad’s unorthodox warmup that had shocked so many of the crowd of onlookers. Good for him, he thought. He’s only a young fellow after all and it wasn’t right that the other arrogant bugger kept him waiting for so long. And of course Rowan had done him the honour of addressing him in his own tongue too.

  “Just call me Finn, lad. And I’ll call you Rowan, if that’s all right with you.”

  Rowan nodded.

  “Aye, Sir, of course. ’Tis my name, after all, though most in the garrison call me ‘Red’. But to be truthful, I do prefer my own name to that. It reminds me of a dog we once had. It was a good dog, but…”

  Finn grinned at him again.

  “Well, we can’t be calling the new Champion by a dog’s name, can we?”

  Finn watched in fascination as the enormity of Rowan’s win finally sank in. He looked stunned and almost overwhelmed for a moment, but he pulled himself together surprisingly quickly.

  “No, Sir, I suppose not. But I doubt it’ll stop them. I’ve found it’s best to just ignore them, else I’d be spending all my time arguing about it.”

  “You’re a wise lad. Now, just remember one thing…it’s Finn, not Sir.”

  “Aye, Sir. Sorry… Finn,” Rowan said with a smile, which quic
kly faded as he heard his name called from the stage. His nervousness came back to taunt him again.

  Finn pushed him gently in the direction of the platform.

  “Off you go, Rowan lad. Don’t worry about a bunch of old windbags like that. They wouldn’t know which end of a sabre to hold on to. And you’re the Champion now. I’m sure you won’t let it go to your head, but don’t forget it either, lad. Just say your bit and leave it at that, and if they don’t like it… well… too bad. Oh, and I’d like you to introduce me to your kin later, if you would. I assume they’re those big tall buggers with the braids that I saw standing about like damned great trees themselves?”

  “Aye, Finn. That’s them, the big tall buggers with the braids.” Rowan grinned at him, feeling better with his new friend’s support. “I’d be honoured to introduce you to them,” he said and ran up the steps to the platform and waiting dignitaries.

  He’d barely started his speech though, when a raucous voice from the crowd shouted, “Speak up lad! Stop bloody mumbling! We can’t hear a damned thing down here!”

  Rowan stared at him, his eyes fiery with outrage at the interruption. He certainly didn’t mumble, but he was quietly spoken as many Siannens are. He’d been brought up properly too: he’d never interrupt the Champion or anyone else and this ignorant bugger shouldn’t do it either. He frowned for a moment, remembering what Finn had said. ‘… You’re the Champion now, and if they don’t like it, too bad…’ Well, up to him to set the bastard straight then.

  “Well, Sir,” he said, his beautiful Siannen manners not letting him down, “Perhaps if you weren’t making quite so much noise yourself, you might find it easier to hear me. Or perhaps you’d prefer to come up here and make the speech yourself? You’re very welcome to do that, Sir, right after you get past me and my sabre.”