by Helen Gosney
“Well, they certainly deserve to have their bloody backsides kicked, and damned hard, too,” Charl said, surprised as he thought about what Rowan had said. Truly, he thought, these foresters are honourable men, just as everyone says. “I think we will likely trade with them again, but not this season.”
“Fair enough. ‘Tisn’t as if they’re completely isolated. The caravans from the north can get into the town, they just can’t get out this way.”
“Ha! Caton might find itself doing a bit more business than usual, then. It’s the nearest bridge to here,” Charl laughed.
“And good luck to them.”
**********
40. “It doesn’t worry them or the stallion”
The next visitor to the bridge came a couple of hours after the first. He came through the town, and Rowan and all of the dwarves heard him coming from quite a distance away.
Rowan glanced at Owen and said, “Don’t tell me, this one’s mine.”
“Well, you did such a good job with the last one…”
“Somehow I don’t think this one’s going to be so amenable to reason, laddie. And he’s come from the north and through the town, so the townsfolk have got at him first,” Rowan said, listening carefully, “Hmm… he sounds like a bloody Candellaran, doesn’t he?”
The fellow looked like a Candellaran too, as he finally came through the town gate. He was about thirty, not overly tall, but stocky, with dark hair and angry brown eyes. He was still cursing at great length and a reasonable volume as he stopped by the log barrier and looked around.
“Hmm… he’s a bit repetitive, Rowan,” Owen said as one expert to another, “But does he remind you of anyone?”
“Aye, he does a bit,” Rowan replied thoughtfully, “But maybe the buggers all look alike.”
“Ha! Don’t let him hear you say that, lad. He might be a bit put out.”
“Oh dear. Well, we can’t have that. But truly, I doubt he’ll hear me over all the damned noise he’s making,” Rowan laughed.
“Who’s in charge here?” the fellow demanded haughtily.
Rowan stepped forward.
“Master Smith Findarel, son of Geldarel, is our headman, but he’s busy elsewhere at the moment. You can speak with any or all of us who’re here, Sir, but I’m the, er, elected spokesman for the clan,” Rowan said, “Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist of the Forest Giant and g’Hakken clans at your service.”
He held out a hand, only to find it ignored. His eyes flashed dangerously for a moment and he became very still, but he said nothing. He felt Owen’s hand on his arm and nodded as he reined in his still-fiery temper.
“So you’re the one who claims to be the Champion?” the Candellaran sneered.
Now it was Rowan’s turn to restrain Owen, but he couldn’t stop the dwarf from saying his piece.
“No, he’s the one who IS the triple Champion, you bloody great ignorant bastard,” he said, following it up with several foul insults in Dwar that the man didn’t understand, and just as well too.
“Language, Owen, language,” Rowan said, trying not to laugh at the blank expression of the other man. “And as for you, Sir, you have the advantage of me. I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name…?”
And that’s because you didn’t give it, he thought. You truly are a bloody ignorant bastard, just as Owen said.
“I’m Lionel Figgins, caravan master, and I want to know what the hell you think you’re doing here, blocking the cursed bridge like this. How bloody dare you?”
I’d dare a hell of a lot more than blocking your precious damned bridge, Rowan thought, and a hell of a lot more than facing a bloody blowhard like you, too. You’d be surprised.
What he said was, “Ah, another Mr. Figgins come to see us. Father and son, are you?”
The man looked a bit taken aback.
“Not that it’s any damned business of yours, but yes, Mayor Figgins is my father,” he managed, “Now, about this bloody bridge…”
“This bloody bridge is a g’Hakken bridge for now, though as we explained to your father, it’s always been a dwarven bridge. The g’Beyans’ Bridge, in fact. Surely he told you that, and why we’re here? And, as I expect he also told you, nobody will be crossing the bridge for… oh, the next few weeks or so. Except us, of course, and anyone else we might decide to allow. But certainly no caravans, I’m sorry to say, and no damned townsfolk either until they learn some respect for others,” Rowan said quietly as he looked Lionel in the eye, “’Tis a lesson you could do well to learn, too. And you’ve come to just the right folk to help you to do it.”
There were sniggers and smothered laughter from the dwarves as Lionel gaped at Rowan’s stunning combination of beautiful manners and devastating bluntness.
“Now, unless you have something else you wish to say to me and the clan… something worthwhile, I mean, Mr. Figgins, I’d hate to be wasting your valuable time. No? Then I’ll wish you a good day,” Rowan said, turning away before he laughed in the man’s astounded face. That would never do.
“You… you Siannen bastard! We’ll see who controls this cursed bridge!” Lionel turned and shouted to somebody who seemed to be lurking in the shadows of the town gate, “Fallon! Get over here!”
**********
A huge man sauntered forward. He was probably five or six inches taller than Rowan, and heavily muscled. He bore a very large curved scimitar on his back. His skin was black, gleaming as if oiled and his head was shaved and tattooed with an odd, intriguing pattern of curving lines. His dark, dark eyes widened as he saw Rowan and what he recognised as the lower part of the tattoo of the Weapons Master on his forearm, just below his rolled-up sleeve. They widened further when Rowan greeted him in his own tongue.
“My greetings to you, and welcome to this bridge of the g’Beyan and for now, of the g’Hakken. You are a long way from your home.”
“You speak Ti’Ahrani? But how is this?”
“I regret to say that I speak only a little of it, not a great deal more than this, to be truthful. I can swear in it better than I can speak politely,” Rowan said, and changed to Common. “One of your countrymen spent some time working in the trees at home in Sian. Sorret, son of Bale, his name was, of the Red Eagle clan. And I’m Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist, of the Forest Giant and g’Hakken clans.”
“I am Fallon, son of Gede, of the Windflow clan,” the man said as they shook hands, his Common oddly formal, “The Red Eagles are a… a sort of offshoot of our clan. Time has widened the gap between us a little, but it has also erased the problems that caused the split. We hope we may be united again some day.” He looked at Rowan more closely. “This is a dwarven bridge, you say? And yet the townsfolk don’t let them use it? Don’t even allow them to pass through the town? Or have I heard things incorrectly as I walked here?”
“No, you heard things aright. ‘Tis why we’ve, um, taken the bridge over for a while… so the locals might learn an important lesson about sharing and showing tolerance for others.”
Fallon thought about it, ignoring Lionel’s growing agitation. Finally he looked at Rowan again.
“You truly are the Champion, are you not?” he said quietly.
Rowan nodded.
“Aye, I am.”
“Please, will you show me your Champion’s Sabre?”
“Certainly you may see it, but ‘tis over in the camp right now. Perhaps I could show you my new axe instead? I’ve not had much chance to show it off yet,” Rowan smiled at him, “You’ll be the first.”
The black man’s eyes widened again as Rowan slipped the protective leather sheath off the g’Hakken axe and handed the weapon over with no argument at all, merely a warning not to cut himself on it as it was very sharp. He gasped as he examined it closely.
It was unmistakably a woodcutter’s axe, not a battle-axe, and it was magnificent. The legendary workmanship of the g’Hakken was evident in every beautiful part of it and it was as wickedly sharp as Rowan had warned. Fallon hefted it in his hands ex
perimentally and the balance of it was perfect. He sighed softly and bowed his head as he handed it back to Rowan.
“It breaks my heart to have to return this to you, my friend,” he said, “But I could no more keep it than stop the day from following the night.”
He turned to Lionel.
“I will not fight this man for you… and you should not fight him either.”
“You’re afraid of him!” Lionel blustered, “You bloody coward! I thought you damned Ti’Ahrani were scared of nothing, but you’re afraid of him!”
Fallon drew himself up to his full impressive height, looked down at Lionel and shook his head.
“No. I respect him. It is not the same thing.”
“It might as well be, you bastard. Fight him now, or you have no place with my caravan!”
Fallon shrugged.
“Then I have no place with your caravan. It matters not.”
**********
“You’re welcome to join us if you want to, Fallon,” Rowan said, after a quick glance at his clansmen.
“Thank you. Perhaps I will, for a while,” Fallon replied.
“Well, isn’t that just fraggin lovely!” Lionel snarled as the two men turned away. He drew a long knife and hurled it at Rowan’s back.
Rowan’s sharp ears heard the hiss of the knife leaving its scabbard, and he turned very quickly just as one of the dwarves said urgently, “Look out, Rowan!” He brought his axe up as a shield, and the long knife clanged against it and fell harmlessly to the ground.
Rowan said something truly reprehensible in Siannen and something else in Dwar that made the dwarves mutter and resheath their own knives, and then he looked Lionel in the eye.
“I’d advise you very strongly not to try that again. I might not be able to stop my friends next time,” he said softly, “I truly don’t care if you think I’m the Champion, or the Troll King, or the Chief Eunuch to the Great Whore of Astenar… but I can tell you with all modesty that you will not best me in any sort of combat, whether it’s fair combat or not.”
The calm certainty in his voice was chilling, but Fallon knew that it wasn’t misplaced: the Weapons Master tattoo proved it beyond doubt. Rowan’s youthful face and the way he’d moved, the sheer unbelievable speed of him, showed that he wasn’t nearly as old as his silver hair might suggest. He could kill Lionel with or without a weapon, as easily as breathing, and the job would be done before anyone could try to stop him.
“And now, a good day to you, Mr. Figgins,” he said, “Oh, and here’s your knife back.”
Rowan threw the knife as hard as he could at the pine log. It buried itself in the wood to almost two thirds of its length, a bare inch from Lionel’s hand.
The dwarves and the two men turned and started to walk away, laughing happily at Lionel’s futile efforts to retrieve his knife, once he’d finally stopped shaking.
“He’s damned lucky that blade’s not stuck in his heart,” Owen said, knowing full well that it had gone just where Rowan had intended it to go.
“Or his throat, or his eye!” another dwarf added cheerfully.
“Bloody lucky he didn’t get the hand axe in his face as well,” a third dwarf observed with a wicked chuckle.
“Don’t think I wasn’t tempted, lads, but ‘tis simply not worth the damned trouble it’d have caused. Besides, I don’t want to dirty my little axe like that. Now, anyone for a fresh cup of tea?” Rowan said.
Several dwarves groaned, but a couple nodded eagerly, and so did Fallon.
**********
“May I truly join your group?” Fallon asked as he sipped his tea and watched Lionel finally stalk off, leaving his knife still embedded in the pine tree.
“Aye, of course. Why not?” Rowan replied, puzzled at Fallon’s sudden hesitation, “I must tell you that you can’t come with us to the Dwarf Moot itself, because only dwarves are allowed and they’re very damned strict about it, apparently. But you’re certainly welcome to stay with us until then, and I can show you my sabre, if you’d like to see it.”
“I would like to see the sabre, I truly would, but I… I’m not always… um… made welcome. Lionel only took me on as a guard because of my size, I think…”
“You’re no bigger than most of Rowan’s forester kin,” Owen said, “’Tis only the northern ones – his Ma’s folk - who aren’t great big tall buggers like you. No offence intended to you and your clan, mind.”
Fallon shook his head.
“None taken. But, well… my skin is black…”
Fallon saw the mystified looks on the faces of Rowan and the dwarves and felt a weight suddenly lift from him.
“Aye, so it is,” Rowan said slowly, “And mine is pale, and my hair’s silver, mostly, except for the red patch on the side…” it was long enough now to weave into the braid and it didn’t bother him as it had, “Mikken, here, has odd-coloured eyes. Odder than mine, I mean. One’s blue and the other’s green… One of the clan’s lasses lisps a bit and another is tone-deaf, but she still sings all the time.”
“And old Alben limps,” Owen added, still puzzled, “Aunt Jessie is as deaf as a post, and Rowan’s got scars, and a crooked nose and a finger missing. The only problem for you will be that you’ll hit your head on tent poles and things, and knock our tents down until you get used to it,” he turned to Rowan for a moment, “Ha! Remember when your Pa stayed with us at home while we made his axe, Rowan? He had to sleep in the barn and eat outdoors in the end, the poor old bugger.”
Rowan laughed.
“So he did, but it didn’t hurt him. Probably even did him some good,” he said, “But I truly don’t see your problem, Fallon. Still, if you’d rather not…”
“No. If you truly can see no problem, then I do want to join you. Thank you,” Fallon said, swallowing a sudden lump in his throat.
**********
Finn shook the newcomer’s hand as he was introduced.
“You truly are welcome here, Fallon,” he said, “You know, our ponies here and at home are black, grey, white, several shades of bay, brown, roan, dun, chestnut and pied. Rowan’s stallion is a lot bigger than any of them. It doesn’t worry them or the stallion, and it doesn’t worry us, so please don’t fret yourself about things that aren’t important, are certainly nobody’s fault, and can’t be changed in any case. I promise you that you’re more worried about this than anyone here is, or will be.” He smiled up at the huge man, “Just mind your head on beams and tent poles and things, and your feet around any guy ropes, and you’ll be fine. Oh, and be careful of the dwarven ale too. ‘Tis a lot stronger than you think.”
“’Twould melt an iron pot at ten paces,” Rowan said.
“Twenty, on a good day!” somebody piped up happily.
**********
41. “take it, and go home to her”
Fallon stayed with the dwarves for ten days, helping out with whatever he could. He knocked down a few tents, too, but found the dwarves were philosophical about it. They’d mutter about ‘great big bloody tall clumsy buggers’, laugh, and enlist his help to re-erect the tent.
One day Finn hurried up to Rowan and drew him away from everyone else.
“What’s wrong, Finn? You look worried,” Rowan said, puzzled by his friend’s very concerned face.
“Aye, Rowan lad, I am. ‘Tis that new lad, Fallon…”
“Fallon? Why? What’s happened to him?”
Finn shook his head.
“I don’t know, Rowan, but he’s certainly upset about something. I think you need to talk with him.”
“Me? All right, but…”
“Just go, laddie. He’s over there, under the trees.”
Rowan hurried to the edge of the camp without seeming to be in a rush, then slowed as he crossed the road and headed over to the trees that bounded the big flattish area where the dwarven children played. He avoided a couple of little lads who weren’t looking where they were going; he kicked a ball back to some others, and navigated the carefully drawn hopscotch
game by walking on his hands, to the joyous laughter of the youngsters there. Then he admired a couple of dolls that two little girls were playing with, plaited the dolls’ woollen hair for them, and finally he wandered over to where Fallon was sitting.
The big man sat slumped with his head in his hands, the very picture of dejection.
“May I join you, Fallon? I don’t want to intrude,” Rowan said softly.
Fallon jumped a little, then raised his head. Rowan was shocked to see that he was weeping.
“Fallon! What’s wrong?” Rowan said as he knelt beside the other man and put an arm around his shoulders without thinking.
Fallon brushed at the tears running down his cheeks and shook his head.
“Nothing is wrong, my friend,” he said sadly.
“I’m truly sorry to say this to you, Fallon, but you’re as woeful a liar as I am,” Rowan said gently, “Please, tell me what’s wrong. Have we… have we upset you in some way? I’m sure nobody would do it on purpose, but…”
“No, the clan has been kindness itself. I’ve never been made to feel so welcome anywhere…”
“Then what is it? Please, Fallon, just tell me. I hate to see you upset like this…”
Fallon said nothing for a while and Rowan was starting to think perhaps Anna or one of the other women might do better when the other man sighed, took Rowan’s proffered handkerchief and scrubbed at his face with it.
“I’ve been watching the children playing…” he said slowly, his voice very sad.
“They’ve not upset you, surely? Their mothers will tan their backsides for them if they have. Gods, I’ll tan some myself if they’ve…”
“No, no! It isn’t that. Not exactly… I was watching them, and I… I thought of my own children… and…”
Rowan looked at him in surprise. He hadn’t realised that Fallon had children of his own. They’d talked about their respective homelands quite a bit, and Rowan had learnt some handy new Ti’Ahrani words, but there’d been no mention of children.
