Red Rowan: Book 2: All Gone, the Gods

by Helen Gosney

  Red Rowan

  Book 2: All gone, the Gods

  Helen Gosney

  ISBN 978-0-9925853-1-0

  Copyright © Helen Gosney 2014

  All rights reserved.

  Cover image © Mikesilent | Dreamstime.com

  Cover design by author

  This is a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed therein are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to real events, locations and organizations is purely coincidental.

  No part of this work may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

  Table of contents

  Gnash

  1.“I think it’s fish…”

  2. “we thought that the Presence might be stronger here, in the city”

  3. “…and those pretty daggers as well.”

  4. “…a subject I try very hard not to ever think about”

  5. “…‘tis hard for me to do this…”

  6. “We can’t do anything for them…”

  7. “… there was nothing there...”

  8. “… ‘tis a song about the way to Plausant Bron...”

  9. “… he carries more scars… worse scars than those you might see.”

  10. “… you’ve already insulted all of us more than is wise.”

  11. “He was fairly sure of the way…”

  12. “… he doesn’t know how to give up or when to do it.”

  13. “… thought we might have to do it ourselves.”

  14. “A bloody nightmare.”

  15. “… we lost so many good men…”

  16. “… I should be reasonably competent at it.”

  17. “you shouldn’t touch them… they’re trained to protect…”

  18. “That’s what I like about travelling, ‘tis never dull.”

  19. “I don’t think our Guardsmen in Gnash could do anything like that.”

  20. “I suppose we’re pilgrims of a sort...”

  21. “‘Tis a lot of somethings dead.”

  22. “The Catspaw River”

  23. “I don’t know how he can bear it…”

  24. “… it sounds like its heart is broken...”

  25. “… some of their travellers’ tales.”

  26. “It is a rare honour to bear such a blade.”

  27. “Either thou art, or thou art not…”

  28. “We never saw or heard anything in there, but…”

  29. “They are twins, you know...”

  30. “… telling their tale to a rapt audience.”

  31. “I’m not about to let a miserable little hole in the ground stop me.”

  32. “Have either of ye ever played scrambleball?”

  33. “It makes no sense.”

  34. “… you all think you are indestructible!”

  35. “I’m not going to kill it. Why would I want to?”

  36. “I’ve never seen a dog like that…”

  37. “… the other end of that bridge is not in this world of Yaarl...”

  38. “…surrender and come out peacefully.”

  39. “You don’t exactly encourage visitors, do you?”

  40. “Rowan...? Is that you...?”

  41. “ It is stealing the life force from you…”

  42. “They truly will not be back.”

  To be presented in evidence

  Reports

  Excerpts from private journals

  Gnash

  It was late morning in the city of Gnash. An old city, it is, barely big enough to be called a city at all, and it sprawls comfortably along the shores of the river Blon, not far from its meeting with the Endless Sea. Its buildings are of many styles, some huge and ponderous and some as light and airy as may be, and the streets meander gently from one part to another in an unplanned sort of way. The cobbles are well worn, and there are trees and great outcroppings of rock in unlikely places.

  The climate of the city is capricious and not to be taken for granted. Not for nothing is Gnash known as the City of All Weathers. Many a fine sunny morning turns to drizzling overcast by noon, much to the chagrin of the washer-women. And the same miserable afternoon may be followed by a glorious late sunset and a brittle, star-filled night. Sometimes the wind blows strong and steady from the west for many days, bringing with it the fresh salty tang of the sea; at other times it teases the weather vanes so that they must creak grudgingly first this way, then that.

  The people are many and varied, and many have come from other lands. They are good-natured for the most part, but often tend to be headstrong and to like a good argument. There are merchants from Nor, and clog-dancers from far Bassting; there are healers, bakers, horse tenders, seamstresses, sailors, rat catchers, gamblers, priests, alewives, market gardeners from the outskirts of the city, and the washer-women so plagued by the temperament of the skies. There are people of every colour and description – some alabaster-pale and delicate-looking, some with skins of glossy blue-black, and some of every shade in between; and there are stolid trolls and hardworking dwarves and clever gnomes and cheeky urchins. The city embraces them all and life for the most part is good.

  It was true that there’d been strange things happening there lately, but then again, there seemed to be strange things happening all over Yaarl, if the travellers’ tales were to be believed. People railed at the Gods and complained amongst themselves, but where the Gods are concerned there’s little to be done about their mischief.

  And on this particular day, it rather looked as if the Gods were thinking of more troubles to plague the city with…

  **********

  1.“I think it’s fish…”

  “What in the Nether Hells is going on out there now?” mine host of the Duck and Whistle Inn demanded loudly. He was a huge bear of a man, blue-eyed, with blonde curls cut short and a neatly trimmed curly beard. His family had owned the inn for several generations.

  Shana had been wondering much the same thing herself. There was a lot of shrieking and screaming coming from the street, not the sort of noise that indicates a riot or a crime, but rather a sort of disbelieving hilarity.

  “I’ll have a look, shall I?” she said, and on getting the nod from the big man behind the bar she moved closer to the window.

  “Oh, Bimm, it looks to be… I can’t quite see clearly… but… I think it’s fish…”

  “Fish? FISH? How can it be damned fish?” he replied, aggrieved, “Are you sure it’s not more of those blasted frogs again?”

  “No, I don’t think so. They’re sort of flapping about rather than hopping… only tiny things though, whatever they are. Maybe they’re tadpoles,” she added helpfully, knowing that this would irritate her uncle even more.

  “TADPOLES! That’s all we need, is bloody tadpoles!” Bimm mumbled to himself a bit and crashed the tankards together with unnecessary force.

  “Oh, open the damned doors then, Shana. I know it’s a bit early, but I don’t think anyone will notice that if it’s really raining fish out there. We might as well let them in and be done with it… and I don’t mean the cursed fish!” he added quickly.

  “Maybe Tim Mouser would like some for lunch,” Shana said with a laugh.

  The great ginger cat dozing comfortably near the fireplace pricked his ears at the mention of his name. He was Bimm’s pride and joy, a fearless and very efficient hunter of rodents and almost anything else, and much coveted by many of the inn’s customers, though he could be very selective in the matter of who he chose to be friendly with. He was quite happy to be admired from afar, but there were not a great many people who wer
e permitted to actually stroke him, much less be more familiar. Cris the rat catcher had tried many times to woo the cat away from the inn, but each time Tim Mouser would merely eat the delicacies left for him, miaow a polite “thank you”, and blithely go off about his business. He quite liked the rat catcher, and he didn’t mind helping him out if he had nothing better to do, but he liked Bimm Olafsen and his warm fireplace even more.

  The cat blinked its eyes sleepily and stretched itself fore and aft before padding silently to the door to see what he might have been missing. He stood politely aside to let those outside hurry in, then stepped out to investigate.

  The rain was easing off, which pleased him, and there were many small silver fish flapping here and there in the street, which pleased him further...

  **********

  Several people crowded into the inn, all talking at once and some waving their arms about in agitation.

  “I can’t believe this is happening... here in Gnash of all places....”

  “What in the Gods’ Great Pavilion is…?”

  “Thanks, Shana, I couldn’t have stood much more of that, all those cold horrible things hitting me in the face...”

  “Gods, Bimm, it’s raining bloody FISH out there! Come and have a look!”

  Bimm quickly set tankards of ale and cider in front of them and waited a little while for their chatter to subside before he spoke.

  “Well, my friends, it’s happened again. First those cursed frogs, which the Gods know were bad enough... and now it’s fish... bloody FISH for the Gods’ sake! What next?”

  Cris the rat catcher sat down near the solid timber bar. He was a small man, quick in his movements, with cropped mouse-coloured hair and clever black eyes and a sharp pointed face. Some unkind folk even said that he looked like a rat himself, and wondered about his father - though not if he could hear them - but all agreed that only Tim Mouser knew more than he about the fine and necessary art of catching rodents. He wore his usual attire of well-washed dark trousers and shirt, the traps and snares on his belt clinking softly as he looked around the room idly. He seemed to be the only one here who could see the funny side of the latest affront to the dignity of the good citizens of Gnash.

  “Let’s hope it’s not cats and dogs,” he remarked with a grin, “or poor Tim Mouser had better be careful.”

  “I think he can look after himself,” said Shana, “but what about the rest of us? What’s going on around here?”

  “The Gods only know,” muttered Bimm darkly.

  “Do they though? I don’t think the Gods DO know anymore!” a soft clear voice said from the back corner.

  There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment and then everyone began to speak at once. They argued among themselves for a while, but eventually the hubbub quietened down as conversations turned to other matters.

  Cris looked around again and then looked up at Bimm questioningly.

  “Who’s that down the back there… right in the corner, by the window…?” he said, “I’ve not seen him in here before…?”

  Bimm shook his head.

  “No… only got in last night. Says he’s travelling, taken rooms for a few days… just as well too, else we’d make no money from him at all. He’s certainly not a drinker. He asked Shana last night if she’d mind making him a pot of tea, of all bloody things, and that mug of ale will last him forever, I think,” Bimm laughed at the memory of Shana’s stunned face. She’d been about to give the traveller a good piece of her mind, but his beautiful manners had won her over. His beautiful face probably hadn’t done his cause any harm either, Bimm thought. He laughed again and then looked puzzled, “But he said… he asked me if I have Wirran blood…”

  “If you’ve got what? Wirran blood? What a strange thing to ask… what’s, I mean, where’s er, ‘Wirra’ anyway?” Cris wondered, looking at the stranger again. A handsome man, he was, bearded, and with his dark red hair in a long braid quite unlike anything Cris had ever seen. He was sitting quietly by himself listening to the conversations in the room, but he hadn’t spoken again.

  “Wirran, Cris, Wirran… my great-grandfather was from Wirran. It’s, um, south-east of here, a damned long way, too. My old Gran always said I looked like him… this fellow says he lived there for a while, though he’s from a neighbouring province that I haven’t heard of. Sheear…? Shan…? Something like that. He’s a very pleasant man, even if he does drink bloody tea… quietly spoken, well mannered… he says what he thinks though,” Bimm laughed, “He certainly stirred this lot up, didn’t he?”

  Cris grinned at him.

  “Didn’t he though? Good on him. Bimm, what do you think he meant by…?” Cris said, but Bimm’s attention had been taken by a new group of loud, thirsty customers. The ratcatcher shrugged. He’d just go and introduce himself to this er, tea-drinker from… wherever it was.

  Cris was only about halfway there when the stranger turned his head and looked straight at him. He watched Cris walk towards him, his face pleasant, but revealing nothing. Cris stopped by the table and spoke quietly

  “I’m Cris Farleri,” he said, “Is it all right if I join you?”

  The man nodded but said nothing.

  He looked lean, fit, and well-muscled with strong broad shoulders; he was well-dressed in brown leather trousers with a silver-studded vest and a creamy silk shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows; on the right arm Cris could see the bottom few inches of an intricate and fascinating tattoo that ended at mid-forearm and seemed to be composed of… weapons? Odd, but then the fellow’s strong hands and forearms bore the myriad little scars of a swordsman and most of his right little finger was missing. Nasty scar on that hand too. On his left little finger he wore a lovely ring of silver and gold in a surprisingly delicate design of entwined twigs and leaves; in itself an unusual thing for a man to be wearing, Cris thought. His beard was braided close to the skin, something like a dwarf’s would be if it were longer, and his thick dark copper-bronze hair had two narrow braids at the temples woven back into a single heavy plait that swung almost to his hips.

  “Who are you and what did you mean by saying that just now?’ asked Cris.

  The stranger’s bright hazel eyes regarded him with interest as he got to his feet with unconscious feline grace. He stood straight and tall at well over six feet, and was certainly more than half a foot taller than the little ratcatcher’s five feet seven. Cris noticed the stranger carried a gold- and silver-chased dagger in a plain leather sheath at each hip as the man extended his hand to him.

  “Rowan d’Rhys del’Quist, at your service,” he said, his voice soft and deep and lilting, his accent unfamiliar. His handshake was firm and his hands callused. Everything about him: his clothing, his ring, his braided hair and beard, his accent, his unusual mottled green-brown eyes, even the pair of daggers and the tattoo that Cris couldn’t see properly, seemed exotic even in the very diverse city that was Gnash.

  “I suppose you could say that I’m a traveller…” he said with a shrug, “I’ve certainly been doing more than my share of travelling lately... but as for what I meant earlier, my friend, why, I meant no more than what I said.”

  “But... but... you said...”

  “I said I don’t think the Gods do know what’s going on any more,” Rowan said helpfully as he sat himself down again.

  Cris wasn’t sure what he should say to this. He sat in the chair opposite Rowan as he thought about it. Certainly things had been a bit odd lately - well, when he came to think of it, very odd indeed, and for quite a while too, if he was honest, but...

  “I’m sorry if I’ve shocked you or spoken out of place, but you look like an intelligent man. Have you not wondered about the strangeness yourself?” Rowan asked him.

  “I’m only a rat catcher, what would I know about it?” Cris replied hesitantly, thinking that Bimm had been right about this man’s good manners and bluntness. It wasn’t a common combination, he thought, and he hoped suddenly that he wasn’t about to get hims
elf into some sort of trouble. Trouble seemed to be able to find him all by itself sometimes, without him having to go looking for it.

  Rowan looked at him carefully. “I mean no offence to you or your kin, but you have eyes to see and ears to hear... do you not know how to use them?’

  “Of course he does, but he’s a bit surprised to hear anyone speak of it so openly,” said Shana quietly as she moved to refill their tankards. Rowan smiled at her and shook his head. Like most of his kin, he wasn’t a great drinker and he could make a mug of ale last an astonishingly long time – as Bimm had discovered. “Most people around here prefer not to think too much at all if they can help it.”

  “Come on, they’re not that bad, Shana. I think most of them are just a bit frightened to think too much about anything right now,” said Cris, “They don’t want to think that the Gods are... um... er... well...”

  “Going mad?” she hissed at him, “That’s what you said to me yesterday, Cris Ratcatcher!”

  Cris blushed and looked away, embarrassed that Shana had spoken so in front of the stranger. He hoped that the other man hadn’t heard; but of course he had.

  “I don’t think the Gods are going mad, ” Rowan said quietly to Shana, “I think perhaps they’ve just simply lost interest in us... or maybe they’re even dying … but either way, they surely don’t care about us, or any troubles they might feel like inflicting…”

  **********

  The door to the inn swung open again and Tim Mouser strolled in, followed by a slim woman wearing a hooded cloak. Both made their way to the back table, the cat to leap lightly onto the stranger’s lap, and the woman to slip off her cloak and pull up a chair next to them. Neither of them seemed to notice anything amiss in the cat’s familiarity, with Rowan stroking it absently and tickling its ears.

  “You were right, Rowan, it’s the same here... there’s nothing...” she began and faltered as she noticed the others trying not to stare at her.