Red Rowan: Book 4: The Dwarf Moot

by Helen Gosney

  “She’s black for now, but I think she’ll turn out to be grey like her Ma. Often greys are born black like this. Well, she could even be dappled like her Pa, I suppose. This little one is Mica’s daughter.”

  “I truly never thought I’d say this to you, Rowan, but thank you for dragging me out of bed in the damned cold and bloody dark. Thank you for letting me see this. I’d hate to have missed it.”

  “So you’re not going to beat me to a pulp?”

  Cris shook his head.

  “Not this time, no.”

  “Ha! We’ll make a damned horse farmer out of you yet, lad.”

  Cris was so busy watching the foal that he didn’t hear Griff and Honi come into the box behind him. He jumped as Griff touched his shoulder.

  “Sorry, lad!” Griff chuckled, “Didn’t mean to scare you out of six months’ growth. We came to see Bonnie’s baby…”

  “Oh… look, Griff! A lovely filly. What’ll we call her?”

  “I think Cris should have the honour, love. He’s here before us, after all. So, laddie, what’s it to be?”

  Cris looked up at him in amazement.

  “Me? Me name her? But Rowan was with Bonnie all the damned night!”

  He knew that Rowan had gone to the foaling barn when everyone else had headed off to bed, but he’d thought his friend was only doing a last check on the mares, not planning on staying with them.

  “’Tis all right, Cris. I’ve named my share of foals over the years, and to be truthful, I run out of ideas after a bit. No, you should do the honours,” Rowan said with a smile.

  Cris thought hard.

  “Er… I don’t bloody know…” he thought a bit harder and suddenly he did know. “Yes, I do. What do you think about ‘Dawn’?”

  “’Tis a good name for her, Cris, you’ve done well. Dawn, it is,” Rowan said, “Now, come and pat her. Bonnie won’t mind if Griff or I are here with you, but she can be a bit, um, wary of visitors coming too close to her baby for the first few weeks. ‘Tis why we didn’t bring the others over here now. There’ll be plenty of new foals for them to see. And as for Bonnie, ‘tis easier when she’s out in the paddocks and can move away if she thinks you’re a bit close.”

  “I’ll be careful, I promise.”

  “Not all of the mares are like that, but some of them are, and they don’t know you that well yet, so… well, just be careful, that’s all. We must remember to tell Rill a couple of times too.”

  Cris nodded as he gently stroked the filly’s soft dark coat. It certainly wasn’t jet black like, say, Soot, but then it was hard to be sure with its fluffy baby coat. Mind you, if Rowan said that it’d likely be a grey, then that’s what it’d be, Cris thought, utterly charmed by the tiny foal still suckling happily, its ridiculous little tail waving like a flag.

  **********

  20. “just something that Rowan said…”

  Tadeus was a very experienced horseman, but he’d never been involved with the breeding side of things. And of course Cris and Rill hadn’t either.

  The old priest found himself fascinated with the actual business of foaling, and Rowan, Honi and Griff were grateful for his help. The mares themselves seemed to appreciate his sensible, no-nonsense approach too; perhaps it reminded them a little of the foresters themselves.

  Cris wasn’t quite as hands-on as Tadeus, because he felt a bit nervous after one of the mares had indeed charged at him, pushed him over and loomed over him threateningly when she’d felt he was too close to her new baby. Luckily, Griff had been in the next box and he’d hurried in and calmed the angry mare down.

  “Are you all right, laddie?” he’d asked, concerned. He’d only been gone for a very short time, and he knew that Cris was sensible, but still… mares could be unpredictable at times like this.

  “Yes… I… I think so. Just frightened out of a few months’ growth, is all. But truly, Griff, I wasn’t even close to the foal, I was just coming to see how you were getting on next door, and then I was going to get some fresh bedding… and then… then… suddenly I’m flat on my face in the straw and the mare was right there…” Cris managed shakily.

  Griff knew that was so, because he’d heard Cris’ footsteps coming through the straw towards him.

  “Don’t fret yourself, Cris. ‘Twasn’t your fault. These things happen. And old Tessa here can be a bit stroppy,” he patted the mare’s nose absently, “But are you sure you’re not hurt at all? Nothing twisted or cracked or sprained?”

  “No, Griff. Truly, I’m all right. Just a… a bloody awful fright, is all. I… I thought she was going to bloody kill me for a moment… I’ll go and get the new bedding for her.”

  “Good lad. I’ll, um, give you a hand when you come back in, just in case she’s still feeling a bit too possessive.”

  “Thanks, Griff. I’d like to say that it’s not necessary, but… well, she’s a lot bigger than I am.”

  Everyone’s a lot bigger than you are, laddie, Griff thought, carefully keeping his face neutral. At five feet seven, the ratcatcher wasn’t even up to the shoulders of most foresters, and the leather trousers he wore had belonged to a ten-year-old Forest Giant kinsman. Still, he was a brave little fellow and he’d proved it many times while travelling with Rowan. Griff was pleased that he’d decided to stay for at least a while.

  Cris was even more careful after that, but he still did his share of work.

  As for Rill, he was… well, squeamish. He’d fainted when he’d attended his first foaling; Rowan had scooped him up, carried him outside and laid him down under a handy tree to recover in the fresh air, then hurried back to the labouring mare. The next time Rill had been in a foaling box, he’d fainted again. Griff had been there that time, and he’d simply done the same as Rowan had. A quick conference had decided that Rill might be better off not attending the actual births, and now he happily did other things, and watched the foals playing whenever he had a spare moment. Of course he wasn’t alone in that.

  In fact Cris was doing just that one day, watching the mares and foals in a big well-fenced yard, totally entranced.

  “It’s a wonderful thing, Cris, isn’t it? Just look at all of the new life around here,” Tadeus said, coming up to him. His grief for Brother Hess wasn’t gone yet, and there’d likely always be some residual sadness that he hadn’t been there when his old friend had died, but he was coming to terms with it, and the wonderful experience of the foaling was doing a great deal towards that end. His decision to stay here and the good wishes of his Brothers in the service of the One had given him a new serenity too.

  Cris smiled at him.

  “Yes, it is. And you’re so good with the mares, Tadeus. Are you sure you’re not a Whisperer too?”

  Tadeus laughed.

  “No, laddie, I’m sure I’m not. We’d all still be sitting on the other side of the Scream with poor Rill having conniptions, if Rowan hadn’t been with us. In fact, I’m damned sure we wouldn’t even have been there in the first place if Rowan hadn’t been with us!” he said.

  “Rill should have spoken up before we got all the way up there, the daft bugger,” Cris said, “He and I could have just as easily come around the long way. What’s it called, now? The Break?”

  “Mmm… I think that’s it. But you’re right, he should have simply spoken up. Nobody’d have thought any the less of him for it. As Rowan says, everyone’s afraid of something,” Tadeus said thoughtfully.

  Cris had told him that he’d seen Rhys carry Rill across the Scream on the way to the Trophy, but he’d simply thought that Rill had turned an ankle or something. “Maybe he thought he’d be all right the second time around, or… well, who bloody knows? He can be an odd one, with all respect to him.”

  They watched the foals playing around their dams; running and leaping and kicking their impossibly long legs for the sheer joy of it.

  “They’re so beautiful, Tadeus,” Cris said after a while, “You know, I was sort of wondering if we… well, if we could breed Bess. W
ould she be too old, do you think?”

  Tadeus shrugged.

  “Shouldn’t think so. I’d have to have a look at her teeth to get an idea how old she is, but I think she’d be about twelve or so. Are all these little sweethearts making you clucky?”

  Cris shrugged in turn.

  “It was just something that Rowan said when he brought me over to see little Dawn, the first foal of the season… and well, I’ve just been wondering if we might…” he said hesitantly, “Do you think Rowan or Griff would mind?”

  “Mind? Of course they wouldn’t bloody mind, lad. They’ve got four superb stallions here, and any one of them would be happy to oblige, I’m sure,” Tadeus chuckled, and then became more serious. “Mind you, any foal of Raven’s would probably be too big for little Bess, I think… And of course she’s a maiden, so she’d be better with an experienced stallion… either Mica or Soot would be fine for her…” his voice trailed off as he saw the incredulous look on Cris’ face.

  “What’s wrong, laddie?” he added gently.

  “I… I’m just being bloody daft, is all. You don’t think of mares as being maidens; well, I certainly don’t, anyway.”

  “I’ve been listening to Rowan and Griff too much, I expect. I’m truly sorry if I’ve shocked you.”

  “No, I’m not shocked. Just, um, surprised, I suppose. What do you think of the idea, though?”

  “Doesn’t matter what I think, really. She’s your mare, Cris, you bought her fair and square when you came back to Gnash, so you can do what you like with her. But since you ask… yes. I think it’s a wonderful idea. I think she’d make a damned good mother. And I’m sure you could ride Holly while Bess is pregnant.”

  Cris looked up at him in surprise.

  “Gods, I hadn’t bloody thought of that. Not riding Bess, I mean,” he said slowly.

  “Well, you and Holly got on well during the bunny run, didn’t you? She gave you a fine ride, I thought. I’m sure nobody’d mind if you rode her a bit more.”

  Cris thought about the little black mare that’d carried him so well that day. She was a bit bigger than Bess, but not a lot, and she really wasn’t big enough to be a troop horse; she was definitely faster and feistier than Bess, and she was brave and strong and fearless in the forest. She was beautifully mannered and her paces were smooth and elegant. Oh, yes, he’d certainly like to ride her more. He sighed softly.

  “I’d love to ride her a bit more. But… well, I know you’ll think I’m truly bloody daft, but I feel a bit, um, disloyal to Bess for saying it. She’s been such a good horse for me, to me, and…”

  Tadeus smiled at him.

  “It’s not daft, Cris, and anyone here would tell you the same. It shows that you’re a good, caring owner. But you can ride Bess until it’s uncomfortable for her and then again after the foal’s weaned and all, unless of course you decide that you’d like another foal from her.”

  Tadeus saw that Cris looked undecided and perhaps a bit confused by the idea.

  “You don’t have to decide right now, laddie. We have to get her in season and in foal first, after all. First things first, as the foresters say.”

  “Don’t count your foals until they’re bred, or something like that, Griff says.”

  “Aye, exactly so.”

  **********

  21. “an iron fist in a velvet glove”

  A little troop of five Wirran Guardsmen trotted down the road to Borl Quist, gaping at the magnificent trees all around them, as everyone always did. Being Engineers, they looked at them rather differently to most visitors who weren’t foresters.

  “Gods! Look at the size of the bloody things, Lieutenant. Imagine how much dressed timber they’d cut up into,” one of the Wirrans said, awestruck by the towering Forest Giants, “And there must be thousands of them…”

  “Millions, more like, Alben,” the troop leader, Lieutenant Marcus Andersson, said, “This is only one little part of Sian, remember.”

  “Aye, Sir. But they do say that the Forest Giants don’t grow everywhere in Sian, don’t they? Er… with all respect, Sir,” another trooper said, still looking around himself curiously.

  “Aye, that’s true, Gavin. Even so, I think there’d be enough damned timber here to build quite a few good-sized towns, with several very nice bridges thrown in.”

  “Bloody Hells,” a third trooper, Corporal Jass Olverson, said reverently. “Er, will we have to organise all that, Sir?”

  “All what, lad?”

  “Well, the timber and everything, Sir.”

  “No, no. Captain Fess said the Siannens would look after that side of things when we’ve finalised our plans. I’m just hoping we won’t have to modify the ones we’ve already got too much,” Marcus said, “Hmm… it’ll all depend on the terrain of course. It’s fairly hilly hereabouts. Still, I suppose the foresters will have some useful input for us, too.”

  “Aye, Sir, I’m sure they will. It’s certainly rugged in places, but it’s beautiful country, isn’t it?” the fourth trooper, Bayle Otten, said.

  “Aye, it is. No wonder the foresters never leave the place.”

  “Except for the Champion, of course, Sir,” Gavin said, “Er, Sir… have you ever actually met him?”

  The lieutenant shook his head.

  “No, I’ve not had that honour, but I’m certainly looking forward to it. I did see him in a bout of the Trophy though.”

  “Did you, Sir? What was he like? Was he truly as good as they say?” Gavin asked excitedly. He couldn’t wait to meet the famous Siannen. He was reputed to be very approachable and beautifully mannered, though plainspoken as all foresters are, and… well, Gavin had a particular and very private reason for wanting to meet with him. He hadn’t told the others about that.

  Marcus nodded.

  “Oh, aye, he most certainly was. Better than they say, even. No wonder he terrified those bloody Plaitens at Messton and made that bastard Rollo run home to his Mummy. He was simply bloody devastating, injured ankle or not.”

  **********

  The lieutenant thought about it. He hadn’t been able to be at the Trophy for more than a mere couple of days, but of course he’d heard all of the rumours, and some of them had been truly dreadful… he’d expected a hell of a lot while at the same time being prepared to be disappointed by the reality of things. But no.

  It’d been in the Round of Sixteen, when the proverbial separating of sheep and goats really began. Nobody who was unworthy ever got this far, and if he was honest about it, Marcus knew that nobody unworthy ever got into the Trophy itself either.

  Marcus had barely managed to get into the arena before they began to turn folk away. He’d found himself stuck behind a big group of enormous foresters and a pair of even bigger trolls, and resigned himself sadly to seeing nothing. At least he could say that he’d been here, he thought glumly. One of the foresters had glanced around as he’d inadvertently bumped him.

  “I’m so sorry, Sir,” he managed, staring up at the man and thinking how bloody HUGE the foresters truly were, “I didn’t mean to knock into you like that.”

  The Siannen laughed.

  “Bloody hard not to, in a damned crush like this. But how the hell are you going to see anything tucked away back there, lad? We’re not made of fraggin glass, are we? Here, come and stand in front of us, at least.”

  The foresters had obligingly made way for him, and he’d found himself with an excellent view over the heads of those seated in front of him.

  “There you go, lad. My name’s Caleb d’Ronal d’Rhodry of the Forest Giant clan, one of young Rowan’s many kinsmen,” the forester said, “Now at least you’ll be able to see our lad kick this other poor bugger’s backside for him.”

  Marcus hastily introduced himself and shook the proffered huge, callused hand.

  “Er… I mean no offence, Sir, but do you truly think he can? They say his ankle’s…?”

  Caleb nodded.

  “Mmm… well, ‘tisn’t the best, to be tru
thful, but I think you’ll find that he’ll be all right. He’s a tough little bugger, is Rowan. Mind you, you’ll need to keep a damned close eye on it all. He doesn’t mess about at the best of times, and he’s trying not to stir that cursed ankle up any further,” he said, “’Tis likely to be over fairly quickly, I’d say.”

  Marcus looked at the tall, silverhaired forester standing patiently in the circle with his second, waiting for his opponent. He was very tall for a top-class swordsman, yet he was said to be incredibly fast on his feet too. And he looked very, very fit in spite of the dreadful rumours that’d been flying about. Even so, Marcus thought perhaps he was favouring an ankle a bit as he stood.

  “It’ll be over even quicker if this other bastard doesn’t get a bloody move on,” a second, older forester said cheerfully.

  “What do you mean, Sir?” Marcus asked carefully, mindful of the foresters’ preference for politeness at all times. Of course they could be damned blunt at the same time, he thought, and good luck to them.

  The second forester laughed.

  “It really irritates Rowan when folk are late to their bouts, like this. Sheer bloody bad manners is all it is, and they should make a bit more of a damned effort to get to where they’re going on time, to my way of thinking. ‘Tis Rowan’s way of thinking too. He’s likely to see the fellow off even more quickly now.”

  “Oh…”

  A Thallassian swordsman finally strutted into the circle, pointedly ignoring the boos and catcalls of the crowd, who didn’t like such disrespect being shown to the defending Champion. The dual Champion, at that. Rowan stood almost six inches taller than him, but of course he was taller than all of the other competitors there anyway; taller, too, than most spectators who weren’t foresters.

  The referee droned through the rules of the contest, both men shook hands and then retrieved their sabres from their seconds. The previously very relaxed Rowan was suddenly, subtly different as he raised his lovely sabre in the formal salute, and Marcus had the odd feeling that his kinsman had been right. This Thallassian would rue the day that he was late for his bout with the Champion without so much as a by-your-leave.