by Helen Gosney
“That’s why we all voted for you, laddie!”
**********
The mayor did indeed find out that the proverbial stubbornness of Siannen foresters wasn’t exaggerated. More like understated, he later thought sourly.
He spent a good hour at the bridge talking to the Siannen. The cursed fellow was politeness itself, even offering him a mug of tea and a seat on the huge log that blocked the bridge; but he was completely unmoved by any of Lester’s ranting, shouting, threatening, swearing, arguing or, in the end, pleading.
“I’m so sorry, Mayor Figgins, but you see we’re simply not moving on yet. And ‘tis all there is to it,” Rowan said when the other man finally ran down, “You can speak with Findarel, our headman, if you like. But, well… he’s a stubborn old bugger at the best of times, and you’ll find he’s not as polite as I am, with all respect to him.”
“He’s fishing just now, too,” Owen piped up, “I’d not interrupt him if I were you.”
The mayor looked around in astonishment. Sure enough, two magnificently bearded dwarves were sitting on a ledge about halfway down the far side of the chasm, dangling lines into the raging river.
“What the hell are they doing? They won’t catch any bloody fish down there…”
Lester’s jaw dropped as the older dwarf hauled out a fine silver fish, dispatched it, gutted it, and put it into a basket beside him. A youngster at the top of the chasm promptly pulled it up and hurried off with it.
“That’s the third one he’s caught so far today, and Dann there with him has caught four. They look like a silverjacket of some sort. We’ll find out what they taste like at lunchtime,” Rowan said quietly, trying not to laugh at the mayor’s astounded face, “Maybe someone from the caravan can tell us what they are, if they’re here by then,” he added, his face the picture of innocence.
Great Bloody Hells, Lester thought in dismay, the damned caravan! How could I possibly have forgotten the cursed thing was coming today? Well, pride be damned.
“Please,” he said, “You must let the caravan through or it’ll affect our trade. We’ll pay you whatever you ask, if you’ll just let it through.”
Rowan’s eyes blazed for a moment and he put a restraining hand on Owen’s arm. The mayor hastily, and very wisely, stepped back a bit.
“No, Lester, ‘tisn’t your money that we want. I’m sorry that your trade is involved, but the answer is still no,” Rowan said, forcing his anger down with an effort, “And I’d advise you very strongly not to mention that offer again to anyone else in the clan. They’re not all as, umm… forbearing as I am.”
“What the hell DO you want?”
“You know what we want, since I’ve just spent quite some time explaining it to you. But as you still seem to be a bit confused about it, I’ll tell you again,” Rowan said, “All we want is to be able to pass through your lovely town and use your fine dwarven bridge that the g’Beyan clan built - freely, in peace and safety, just as the plaque says and the builders intended. Without pointless arguments would be a nice bonus. And I truly believe you should apologise to my clan, and any other clans that happen to be passing this way in the future. ‘Tisn’t much, is it?”
He saw the hostility in the other man’s face and shook his head.
“But I can see that you’re a long way from agreeing to any of that. Never mind, we’ve got plenty of time, and as Findarel says, ‘tis a lovely spot just here, and it won’t hurt to stop and rest the ponies and all the clan for a bit.”
“You bloody stubborn Siannen bastard!” Lester said, without thinking of the wisdom or otherwise of it.
All of the dwarves bristled and fingered their axes and hammers suggestively, but Rowan smiled at him.
“Stubborn, you think, Mr. Figgins? But I’m not even warmed up yet,” he said softly. He didn’t bother to tell the man that he, Rowan, was considered to be very damned stubborn even by his own clan of foresters. The mayor would soon find that out for himself.
**********
Twenty minutes or so had passed since the Mayor had stalked off in a fierce temper. Rowan and the dwarves watched the gatekeeper, Saul, pace back and forth with a very worried look on his face. The dwarves moved quietly to the other end of the bridge, leaving Rowan alone for when the other man had gathered enough courage to speak with him.
“I won’t bite you, you know,” Rowan said softly, “You seem worried, lad. Come and take a weight off your feet and tell me what’s bothering you.”
Saul looked around quickly, saw Rowan sitting on the log by himself, and took a deep breath. There was only one way he was going to resolve his sudden fears over what he’d heard this morning. He walked over and perched on the log a few feet away from Rowan.
“You say the plaque on the bridge says it was made by dwarves…” he said uncertainly.
Rowan nodded.
“Aye, it does. ‘Twas built by the g’Beyan clan around five hundred or so years ago… interesting how the name’s changed over that time, isn’t it?”
“What do you mean?”
Rowan raised an eyebrow.
“Well, strictly speaking, ‘twould have been the ‘Clan g’Beyan Bridge’ originally, but what a mouthful – no wonder it became just the ‘g’Beyan Bridge’, or the ‘g’Beyans’ Bridge’… and that’s become ‘Gabonsbridge’”
“No.”
“I’m afraid it’s true, Saul. But I don’t expect you to take my word for it. Let me think, now… I don’t suppose you read Dwar, do you?” Rowan shook his head, “Ah! Stupid me! You’ve had no opportunity to learn it, have you? Never mind, lad, I’m sure some of the caravan masters will have at least a smattering of it. Shall I ask one of them to read the plaque to you, so you’ll know the truth of it?”
“I… I don’t know what to say to you…”
“’Tis a shock to have your foundations rocked like this, isn’t it? We were all bloody shocked too, I can tell you. ‘Tis a wonder all the clan and half the town haven’t had their hair curled by the swearing and cursing that went on last night, truly,” Rowan smiled at him, “Do you happen to know the name of the caravan master who’s coming this way today?”
“Ya. Bels Charl, his name is…”
“Ah, a Crellian, by the sound of it. He’ll likely speak and read a bit of Dwar. Is he a good man, Saul? Would you trust his word?”
“Ya…er, yes, I meant to say,” Saul said slowly, a bit surprised that this Siannen hadn’t been offended by any suspicion that he might be untruthful. And if he was honest with himself, Saul knew in his heart that Rowan wasn’t lying; foresters were notorious for being simply hopeless at it.
**********
39. “a neat, good-sized tent town”
The first caravan from the south arrived in the early part of the afternoon. Bels Charl, the caravan master, was indeed a Crellian, and he was most surprised to see a neat, good-sized tent town on one side of the road, with no sign of the usual tollkeeper. Oddly, the tents seemed to be populated by dwarves and there looked to be a neatly trimmed pine tree blocking the end of the bridge.
A tall silver-haired man with the unmistakeable braid of a Siannen forester was busily chopping up some deadfall logs, presumably for firewood for the tent town. For a moment Charl admired the easy rhythm and the beautifully balanced style of the man, then reflected that it was his life’s work after all, and he should be damned good at it. The fellow raised his head when the wagons were still a good way off, put his shirt back on and shouldered his axe, and ambled over with all the nonchalant grace of a great hunting cat to stand quietly waiting in the middle of the road.
What the hell would a forester be doing here, of all places, and with all these dwarves, the caravan master wondered.
He turned to the leader of his guards and said quietly, “We’re not looking for trouble here, Zach. Don’t let your lads do anything stupid.”
The burly, dark-haired guard shook his head.
“Don’t fret yourself, we won’t be starting anything,
and especially not with a damned great forester wielding an axe. But it’s always best to be ready, just in case,” he said, eying the axe that Rowan was casually leaning on. It seemed to be a most magnificent axe, but very workmanlike at the same time. Odd, thought Zach, I must try and have a discreet look at that.
“So it is,” Charl replied, “But just let me speak with this man first. I doubt a forester’s going to bloody murder me for no reason. And if he does, well, then you can do whatever you have to do.”
**********
Rowan, as the elected representative for the clan, waited for the little convoy to come to him. There were only six – no, seven – wagons and ten guards. The guards were fingering their weapons and looking around anxiously at the unexpected sight of the tents, the bridge-blocking pine tree, and Rowan himself, but a quick word and hand signal from, presumably, their leader, pulled them into line.
The wagons stopped and an older man riding a nice chestnut mare came on alone, after another quick word with the head guard.
“A good day to you, Sir,” Rowan said politely, stroking the mare’s nose as she snuffled at him.
“And to you,” the caravan master replied, surprised at Rowan’s youthful-seeming face in combination with his silver hair, “What’s going on here?”
Rowan was pleased to hear the man’s Crellian accent, as he might be able to read the plaque for Saul. Enough of it, anyway. But first things first.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this,” he began, “But you can’t cross the g’Beyans’ Bridge now, Sir. ‘Tis nothing against you personally, of course, but we g’Hakken have a grievance with the town and this seems to be the best way to resolve it.”
G’Beyans’ Bridge? What the hell…? Then something else Rowan had said struck him. ‘We’ g’Hakken? The caravan master looked at him in amazement. If this man was a dwarf, then he, Charl, was a damned ferret. He wasn’t big as foresters go, but even so he had to be well over six feet tall and he was broadshouldered and powerfully built without being heavy. But foresters were widely known as being hopeless liars, utterly useless at it, and he supposed this one was no different. And then suddenly he thought he knew. There WAS a Siannen forester who was said to be of the g’Hakken too, but surely it couldn’t be him, could it?
He looked at the magnificent and gleaming new axe that’d taken Zach’s eye and nearly fainted. Would he be offended to be asked, Charl wondered. Surely not. And the politeness of foresters was as proverbial as their stubbornness and their liking for plain speaking. He decided to simply speak up, as the forester himself undoubtedly would if the roles were reversed.
**********
“Pardon me for asking, but… er… you’re the Champion, aren’t you? You beat our lad, Axel, in the Final of the Trophy,” he said, trying hard not to give offence. Though known for their beautiful manners, some foresters could be prickly buggers, and the g’Hakken were even more so… and this man was both.
Rowan nodded.
“Aye, I am, and I did. Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist of the Forest Giant and g’Hakken clans, at your service,” he said, holding out his hand, “Young Axel did very, very well. He’s a fine swordsman and he truly did Crell proud.”
The other man shook Rowan’s callused hand, astounded that he was actually doing so. He’d never imagined he’d ever see the triple Champion, let alone meet the man himself; but here he was in the back end of Candellar, of all damned places.
“Yes, he certainly did. Ha! We might actually win the damned Trophy next time, now that you’ve retired from competition,” he said, “But where are my bloody manners? I’m Bels Charl, and I have to say, I’m truly honoured to meet you. But what the hell are you doing in this Godsforsaken place? And with all these dwarves?”
“Well, we’re on our way to the Dwarf Moot in Gian, but…” Rowan watched the Crellian’s face pale as he told him exactly why they were here, camped outside the town like this. “Can you by any chance read the dwarven runes? Young Saul over there needs a bit of confirmation from someone without a vested interest, as it were.”
Charl looked most surprised that anyone would doubt Rowan’s – the Champion’s - word, but he nodded slowly.
“Yes, I can speak a bit of Dwar and read a bit of it too, it’s useful in trade. Nothing fancy, though,” he replied.
“It won’t need to be fancy.”
Rowan called to Saul, who climbed over the log, then hurried to meet them near the middle of the bridge and greet the caravan master.
“Charl! It’s good to see you again. Did he, er, the Champion, I mean, did he explain the situation? Can you read the plaque?” he said a little plaintively.
“I’ll give it a try, lad. Now, where is the damned thing?” The Crellian looked around and saw it, just where it’d been for five hundred years. “Ah, yes, I’ve seen that over there before, but never really taken much notice. Let me see, now…” he squinted at the weathered runes thoughtfully.
“Hmm… it says, umm… ‘Master Mason…um, Alban… no, no, Albanor, I think, and Master Engineer… somebody…sorry, I can’t get that bit. Anyway, whoever he was, he and Albanor of the, hmm… the g’Beyan clan… made this bridge in, er, 495, the year of the Great… the Gods only know what. And then it says something about crossing the bridge in freedom, and in peace and no danger… well, safety, I suppose… Bugger me! That’s why you called it the g’Beyans’ Bridge! It truly is a bloody dwarven bridge! Er, no disrespect intended to you or any of the clans, mind.” He looked up at Rowan anxiously, relieved when he saw him smile.
“No offence taken, Charl, and thank you,” he turned to a whitefaced Saul, “Sit down before you fall down, laddie. You need a good drop of dwarven ale.”
One of the dwarves bustled up with a foaming mug and pressed it into Saul’s unresisting hand. The gatekeeper coughed at the first taste, then drank it eagerly.
“Careful, laddie, ‘tis stronger than you might think,” Dann said kindly, “Slower is better, at first.”
“You know, I’ve just realised that I’ve never seen a dwarf in Gabonsbridge before, and it’s never really registered. I’m ashamed to say that, but it’s true,” Charl said slowly, “If I’d known the real situation here, I’d… I’d never have come, truly. I hope you and your clan can believe that.”
Rowan was a good judge of character. He looked at the other man’s upset and honest-looking face and nodded.
“Aye, I didn’t know about it either, until the g’Hakken told me when I asked why we weren’t going to cross the river safely here, rather than at some bloody dangerous spot downstream,” he said, “But now that I do know… well, ‘tis simply bloody wrong, and ‘tis time those ignorant buggers in the town learned better.”
“Yes, I think so too. Well, we can just as easily bypass Gabonsbridge and go upstream to Caton, they’re not like that there,” Charl said thoughtfully, “But before we do, would any of the clan be needing any items? We’ve got foodstuffs, dried goods and the like mainly, and a few other bits and pieces… axes, nails and so forth.”
Rowan’s eyes lit up in anticipation.
“Do you by any chance have any iron or steel splitters? You know, to split the logs with? You might know them as, um, wedges,” he asked, adding, “Steel’s better, if you’ve got it.”
Charl looked embarrassed, to Rowan’s surprise.
“Er… well, um, yes, I think there might be a few there with the axes and things. But, well… I’d, um…” his voice trailed off uncertainly.
“Is there a problem?” Rowan asked, taken aback by the merchant’s sudden reluctance, “We only need them so we can chop up these big logs a bit more easily when we finally leave here. We thought the townsfolk could use them for firewood when they’re dried out… and truly, it’ll save us having to move the damned things again.”
“No, not a problem, exactly, but… truly, I’d be embarrassed to even show them to you or the g’Hakken,” Charl said slowly, “I’m sure they’re not the quality you’re used to…” his eyes
strayed to Rowan’s axe again. It was simply superb, and the Crellian found himself amazed that Rowan had actually been using it as if it were, well, just any old axe.
Rowan realised what the trouble was, now. He’d seen the same look on other peoples’ faces when they saw him using his g’Hakken sabre or knives, as if doing so would somehow damage them.
“Charl, the dwarves would be offended if I didn’t use my axe as it’s intended to be used. They hate it when one of their fine weapons or tools is hung up on a wall somewhere to gather dust. But not all the tools I use are like this, and neither are the clan’s. The Master Smiths’ hammers are like my axe, because they make them as a test of their Mastery, but… while everyone else’s things are very good axes or hammers or whatever, they’re certainly not like this.” He smiled at Charl. “And as for the splitters, I truly don’t give a damn what they look like, so long as they do the job and don’t bend or shatter when I hit them.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think they’ll do that!”
“Then show me one, please. If ‘tis all right with you, I’ll stick it in a nice handy log – but not this one on the bridge just yet – and I’ll belt it a couple of times, and we’ll see what happens. We’ll be needing plenty of firewood if we’re going to be here for a while, and there’s no point in not making the job a bit easier if we can.”
To Charl’s relief, the log splitter performed well, with the practice log separating neatly along its grain after a couple of blows to the wedge with the head of Rowan’s axe, and Rowan bought several. While he was at it, he bought some nails as well. Like rope, a few nails never went astray, and one of the clan had suggested a plan that’d call for them. He bought a few other odds and ends that might come in handy for the scheme too.
He turned around to see that Saul had returned, shaken, to his post, and several of the g’Hakken women were talking with some of the traders and examining the goods for sale.
“I thought they’d be interested,” he said with a smile, “And thank you for trading with us, Charl. I think the town will have learned its lesson by the time you come this way again, and… well, I truly hope that you’ll trade with them again, if so,” he shook his head slowly, “We never intended to ruin their livelihoods, just kick their backsides a bit.”
