Red Rowan: Book 1: Forester's son

by Helen Gosney

  “Aye, you bloody loudmouth! Shut up and let the lad speak!” another, deeper voice with the same beguiling Siannen accent said quietly, but with unmistakeable menace.

  Two very large young Siannens suddenly appeared on either side of the heckler. They both gave him a charming smile and then one of them picked him up with no effort at all and followed his friend as the crowd parted in front of them. He plonked the hapless heckler down in the front row and put a friendly, heavily muscled arm around his shoulders.

  “Away you go, Rowan lad. I’m pretty sure he can hear you now,” Rowan’s friend Glyn said happily.

  On the other side of the very chastened heckler, Rowan’s cousin Griff beamed at him. He was Rhys’ sister-son, four years older than Rowan, and he’d lived with the family since he’d been orphaned at ten. He and Rowan were more like brothers than cousins.

  Rowan grinned at them and said his piece, speaking as quietly and clearly as he always did. There were no more complaints from the audience, and in fact they found that they could hear him perfectly well in the complete silence that surrounded them. He thanked his father and his family for their patience and understanding; he thanked his Captain, Sword Master and all of his garrison for their faith in him and their time and effort in training him and he thanked the g’Hakken dwarves for the sabre they would make for him and hoped he would be worthy of it. Finally he thanked the organisers, judges, referees and his other opponents. It was probably the shortest and most sincere speech in the trophy’s five hundred year history.

  And then Rowan shook hands with the dignitaries and strode off the platform to rousing cheers. The spectators had taken this quiet, brilliantly talented young man into their hearts, finally realising what a truly worthy Champion he was, and amazed that they’d somehow not noticed it before.

  “You did well, Rowan lad. You were right to stand up to that silly bastard, and you handled it exactly right. Mind you, I did think for a moment that you were going to go down there and flatten him. Truly, it would have livened things up a bit, though those two forester lads did a good enough job,” Finn said with a laugh as he came towards him. “Now, let’s go and meet all those tall buggers that are your kin.”

  “They are tall buggers, Finn. Here in Wirran I’m considered tall, but at home they think I need to grow a bit more,” Rowan said a little wistfully.

  “I promise you they won’t be thinking that now, Rowan.”

  **********

  11. “… as if he was just a very tall dwarf.”

  Rowan spent several months living with the g’Hakken while Finn and his son crafted a magnificent sabre for him. He’d been surprised that they hadn’t started straight away, but Finn’s son Dandarel – or Dann, as he insisted Rowan call him – assured him that they had in fact started.

  “Truly, Dann?” Rowan said sceptically. “So why exactly are you and I sitting here fishing? And Finn’s over there asleep?”

  Dann laughed at him. He was very like his father, with the same merry eyes and ready smile. Indeed, Rowan had found that the g’Hakkens’ reputation for disliking outsiders was completely unfounded. The youngsters had been understandably wary of the young giant who’d suddenly appeared in their midst riding a huge pony, but they’d quickly got over their shyness and now Finn and Dann often found themselves chasing them away so Rowan might get a bit of peace.

  “Well, to be truthful, I can’t speak for him… but as for me, I’m watching how you move, how you walk and run and move your arms and bend and turn… how you hold onto things…” he said.

  “But why…?” Rowan began. Suddenly he remembered the fascinated groups of dwarves who’d watched his every move as he’d flowed effortlessly through his daily sabre drill and he thought he understood. “Is it so you can somehow craft the blade to suit me better?”

  “Aye, Rowan,” Finn’s deep voice came from the willow tree behind them, “We have to see how you do things, how your body does things, so we can get the balance of the blade perfect. That’s why we were watching you so closely at the competition. But it’s not just how you use a sabre, it’s the whole balance of you. That’s why we’ll have you here with us for longer than you might think necessary, so we can get it all just right… Not that you’re not welcome to stay with us as long as you like, of course!” he added hastily. And it was true.

  Other Champions had been dealt with as quickly as possible, but Rowan had fitted into the life of the dwarven clan as if he was just a very tall dwarf. He could speak passable Dwar, and his grasp of it was improving rapidly. Some of the younger dwarves were starting to speak the Common Tongue with a Siannen accent, which amused everyone and many were taking the chance to learn Siannen as well. One way and another, Rowan was being kept busy.

  “Truly, Finn, I wish I could stay here with you longer. When I go back to Den Sorl they’ll have a new posting for me.”

  “Do you know where it’ll be?” Dann asked him curiously. Like his father, he liked this young Siannen very much. He was a quiet, unassuming lad, beautifully mannered, good-natured and witty, patient with the youngsters and with an effortless charm about him. At just eighteen he still had a bit of growing left to do, but even so he was over six feet tall and living with the dwarfs couldn’t be comfortable for him. He’d never complained though, not even when he’d inevitably hit his head on doorways and occasional roof beams. After a couple of nights he’d politely asked Finn if anyone would be offended if he slept on the floor or outside in the barn. Finn had stared up at his worried face, then looked at his long legs, and laughed.

  Rowan shrugged as he thought about what Dann had asked him.

  “I’ve got no idea, Dann. Somewhere where there’s not too many arrogant buggers, I hope,” he said.

  “Are there a lot of them in the Guard?” Finn wanted to know.

  “There’s a few, certainly. Usually they’re the ones who’ve got the least to be arrogant about,” Rowan said.

  Finn looked at him more closely. Truly this lad was wise beyond his years.

  “Rowan, lad,” he began slowly, “You know there’ll be lots of stupid buggers out to prove they’re better than you because you’re young and you’re the Champion…”

  “Aye, Finn. But they had their chance at the Trophy.” Rowan shrugged again. “I’ve got better things to do than fight every silly bugger with a blade who wants to show that he would have beaten me if only he hadn’t been hopeless. Sorry. That makes me sound arrogant too.”

  “No, lad. ‘Sensible’ is what it makes you sound. Now, when you and young Dann have finished loafing about down here, I’ve got a little job for you both.” Finn laughed as his son groaned.

  “Is it by any chance chopping up that damned great pile of logs outside our back door?” Dann asked plaintively. It really wasn’t his favourite job.

  Rowan brightened though. He was a forester after all, even if he’d been away from the forests for four years. He’d never thought he’d miss something as mundane as chopping firewood, but he had. Besides, it was good exercise and he liked to be active.

  “Truly? Good, let’s go and do it now, Dann. The bloody fish aren’t biting well anyway, we’ve only caught a few.”

  As others had before them, the dwarves watched in fascination as Rowan carefully tossed the heavy dwarven axe from hand to hand, experimenting with the heft and balance of it before settling on a grip and setting to work. He quickly settled into a regular easy rhythm that he could keep up for hours if need be. Finn and Dann watched his relaxed stance and the smooth play of his strong lean muscles, surprised at his strength and endurance.

  “Is there nothing you can’t do, Rowan?” Dann said in wonder.

  “You silly bugger, Dann,” Finn said, “He’s a forester, when all’s said and done. Always will be. He could chop wood in his sleep and he’s probably chopped up more piles of logs than you’ve had hot meals. But don’t let him do the whole lot, go and help him.”

  “I’m all right, truly,” Rowan said, “I’ll tell you if
I’m not, but I quite like chopping wood, it’s relaxing. I’m not keen on chopping trees down, mind you, but logs…? Anyway, you said you wanted to see how I do different things. Now’s your chance. But there’s those couple of fish to gut, Dann.” Rowan laughed happily, the regular rise and fall of the axe never faltering as the neat pile of firewood grew steadily higher.

  **********

  The younger dwarfs were taking Rowan out to see their animals, and he’d promised to help them milk the goats. He’d had quite a lot of practice at it as a lad; Glyn’s Gran had goats and he’d often gone over to help out. He thought it better not to mention that he’d ridden his fair share of them too.

  The g’Hakken kept their beasts on a communal basis, much as the foresters did. It worked well for them and spread the associated chores around a bit. Rowan checked on his troop mare that looked like a giant among a fine herd of ponies, and he carefully fended off a couple of well grown foals that wanted him to stay and play with them for a bit longer, then he inspected the ducks and chickens. Next were the saddlebacked pigs that leaned happily against his legs as he patted them and scratched their broad backs. He looked down at Finn’s grandson, Owendarel.

  “Where are these goats then, Owen? Don’t tell me they’ve got out. My friend’s Gran’s goats were always doing that and they’d end up in our garden eating their cursed heads off,” he said with a grin.

  Owen laughed.

  “No, I don’t think they have today, but they often do. They’re over this way.”

  “Finn, love,” his wife Anna said to him quietly as they watched Rowan helping to milk the goats, “That lad’s a Whisperer, or I’m a donkey’s daughter.”

  Finn stared at her as if she really had suddenly grown long ears and a tail.

  “He can’t be! What makes you think that? He just said he was used to beasts…”

  Anna nodded.

  “Aye, and he obviously is, but just watch him with them for a while,” she said.

  Finn raised an eyebrow, but found himself a more comfortable log to sit on and did as he was bid.

  Rowan sat on the ground as he milked the goat the youngsters had called Butter. Odd name, but maybe he’d heard it wrong, he thought as he absently patted the goat and pushed her head away as she tried to nibble on his braid. He heard muffled giggles behind him and thought that he probably did look rather comical, with his long legs under the goat’s plump body and his head against her side. They were smallish goats and he’d found the dwarfs’ milking stool to be fiendishly uncomfortable, so he’d alternated between sitting on his heels and this odd but surprisingly comfortable position. All the same, he thought he might make a raised milking platform like Glyn’s Gran had, if he was going to be milking goats regularly. He was a lot taller now than when he’d last done it.

  He squirted some milk into the waiting mouths of the three grey cats and four brown and white dogs that were sitting beside him and the young dwarfs laughed happily again; then he finished the job and patted Butter again as she daintily stepped over his legs and trotted away a few steps.

  A little dwarf lass tapped him on the shoulder and pointed at the last goat. It was a lop-eared, defiant looking creature that seemed to have the children bluffed as it made short charges at them.

  “Can’t you catch her?” he asked in his much-improved Dwar.

  The little lass shook her head sadly.

  “That’s Rush,” she said, “She doesn’t like us.”

  “Never mind, Karina, I’ll milk her for you.”

  He walked over to Rush, knelt down and held his hand out to her and stroked her all over before resuming his very unorthodox goat milking position.

  “Take Rowan over to see Nipper and Boots when he finishes there,” Finn called to the youngsters.

  “Aye, Papa,” a little lad answered dubiously.

  “Who are Nipper and Boots?” Rowan asked as he finished with Rush and sent her on her way with a pat on the rump.

  “They’re the stallions,” one of the children piped up.

  “Stallions? I haven’t seen them,” he’d spent quite some time with the clan’s ponies, but there hadn’t been a stallion, “Where are they?”

  “Over here…” Owen said, leading the way but clutching tightly to Rowan’s hand.

  Rowan smiled at him as he found himself and a procession of dogs, cats and children headed for two good-sized yards, with solid well made fences about five feet high. He peered into the first to see a handsome bay pony stallion with the elegant proportions of a small horse staring back at him.

  “Which one’s this?” he asked quietly.

  “That’s… that’s Nipper,” Owen said, standing well back. The rest of the youngsters were hanging back a bit further.

  “He’s a fine pony, Owen lad. Is it all right if I go in with him?”

  Before the lad could answer Finn came up behind them.

  “Of course you can, Rowan. Just be careful, he’s a bit, er, feisty.”

  Rowan laughed.

  “All stallions are feisty, Finn,” he said, “I’ve never known one that wasn’t full of himself, and ponies often seem to be even more so. But I can run, and I can scale the fence if he’s not happy.” He thought he could probably jump it if he really needed to, but he doubted that’d be necessary.

  “Aye, so you can. You’re certainly fast enough.”

  Rowan climbed the fence easily and dropped into the stallion’s yard. The pony snorted at him and reared.

  “Silly creature,” Rowan said softly, “Come over here, Nipper, my lovely lad, and let me have a good look at you…”

  By the time Finn and Owen had swarmed up the fence Nipper was standing quietly as Rowan stroked his glossy neck.

  “Hush, Owen lad. Don’t say a word,” Finn said quickly as the youngster started to open his mouth.

  “But… but, Papa…”

  “Hush, lad. Just watch. Just watch Rowan and remember this. And don’t ever do it yourself.”

  “Don’t worry, Papa. I won’t be doing that, I promise,” Owen said as Rowan casually opened Nipper’s mouth and looked inside as if he was thinking of buying him.

  “Nipper’s a fine pony, Finn,” Rowan said as he came back over the fence a few minutes later, “Now, is Boots over there?”

  Boots turned out to be a shaggy thickset piebald with wicked blue eyes, probably a sire of working beasts rather than riding ponies, Rowan thought. The pony glared through his long forelock as Rowan landed lightly in his yard. Rowan smiled as the little stallion pawed the ground and whinnied at him.

  In a very short time Boots was nuzzling Rowan’s hand and pushing his head forward so that his ears could be tickled more thoroughly. Rowan was happy to oblige him. He looked across at the row of dwarves standing on the rails of the fence.

  “Why do you call him Boots, Owen?” he asked. “Is it because of these two black legs he’s got?”

  All of the dwarves grinned at him

  “No, Rowan,” Owen laughed, “It’s because he kicks. He boots us all if we’re not quick. Sometimes even if we are.”

  “Oh.” Rowan had just walked around the pony a few times, patting him and studying him, and he’d run his hands down his legs and picked up each of his hooves and looked at his mouth just as he had with the bay. “And what about Nipper?”

  Owen grinned even more widely.

  “He nips.”

  Does he indeed, thought Rowan.

  “What about… um… Rush and Butter, then?” he asked cautiously.

  Finn laughed, a huge belly laugh that threatened to tip him off the top of Boots’ fence.

  “Rush is nearly impossible to catch. She rushes up and knocks you over and then she rushes off instead of standing properly to be milked. She’d have been in the stewpot years ago if she wasn’t such a good breeder. And Butter…”

  “Butts!” the little dwarves chorused gleefully.

  “Ah. Thank you for telling me. They must be on their best behaviour today,” Rowan laughed, please
d that the dwarves had accepted him so well that they were playing tricks on him.

  “I doubt it, lad!” Finn was suddenly more serious. “You know you’re a Whisperer, don’t you?”

  Rowan nodded. Some folk called it by a different name and most got excited about it, but it was something he’d always been able to do and he rarely gave it a thought. As far as he was concerned, he liked animals and they liked him. He simply couldn’t explain it any better than that.

  “Aye, that’s what they’ve always called me at home. The Wirrans say that I’m a Horse Master,” he said off-handedly.

  “More fools them, then.”

  Rowan was about to ask Finn what he meant when Anna called to them all to stop messing about with the ponies and come and eat, or she’d throw their meal away. This dreadful threat drove all thoughts of Whisperers and Horse Masters out of his mind. In fact he wouldn’t really think of it until quite a few years later, when a troll had a similar conversation with him and shocked him to the core.

  **********

  12. “He had the heart and spirit of the dwarves within him.”

  Rowan walked quietly along a forest trail, a dead rabbit hanging limply in one hand. It had been a successful hunt and now the dwarves were trotting on ahead with a bag full of rabbits and a small deer for their supper. Rowan lagged behind in the hope of seeing the worral again. Ah. There she was.

  She ghosted out of the undergrowth ahead of him and sat looking at him, her brindled brown and grey fur gleaming in a patch of late sun. She was doglike, but no dog had ever had claws and jaws and teeth like the worral and she stood two feet high.

  “I see you’ve had your babies, lady,” Rowan said softly as he put the rabbit on the ground, “You might be glad of this then.”

  The worral made short work of it and her bushy tail waved gently as she moved up to Rowan to rub herself against his legs in an oddly feline way. He brushed his fingers through her fur, surprised as he always was by the softness of it, smiling as he thought about Glyn’s theory that worrals were the result of an unholy alliance between a she-wolf and an ambitious forest cat. Certainly there was something of both creatures about them. He felt the worral stiffen beneath his hand and heard the beginnings of a snarl.