by Helen Gosney
Rowan nodded, but still said nothing. Bimm noticed him unconsciously twisting the ring on his finger and wondered at his sudden tension. He looked like he was ready to bolt at any moment. What had he said, Bimm wondered.
“All I wanted to say to you about it, Rowan, is that I’m a good listener... if you want to speak of it... and if you don’t, that’s fine by me...” Bimm hesitated, adding more strongly, “But I think we should talk about the way the Gods are carrying on lately, if we can. Nobody in Gnash will even admit that there’s anything wrong, though we all know there is...”
Some of the wariness left Rowan’s face. He sighed and said softly, “Even now, Bimm, I can hardly bear to speak about it... I haven’t even been able to tell Pa or Griff everything... and, and Rose… I can hardly tell her anything at all… but, aye, I was at Messton-near-Edge, and whatever you’ve heard, no matter how terrible, the reality was far worse than you could ever imagine...” he looked pale and ill suddenly, and he reached out blindly to stroke Tim Mouser. The cat purred loudly and pressed its head against Rowan’s hand. Gradually, as he stroked the soft fur, Rowan relaxed a little, but not all his tension left him.
Cris came in quietly, nodded to the others, and sat down, wondering at the obvious strain in the room. Bimm was the most easy-going man in the world, and Rowan hadn’t struck him as the type of person to take offence easily.
“Is everything all right?” he asked hesitantly. He hoped he hadn’t opened his mouth when he should have kept it safely shut.
“Aye, Cris, ‘tis fine… ‘tis just that we, er, got onto a subject I try very hard not to ever think about,” Rowan said, waving away Bimm’s attempts to apologise. “No Bimm, ‘tis all right, truly, you weren’t to know. Anyway, perhaps you’re right. Maybe... maybe it is time to try and speak of it all now... if you can bear with me...” He stared into the fire for a few moments before he continued, “’Tis just… well, no matter how hard I try not to think about it, Messton is there in my mind every day, and believe me, it really is not something you’d want to remember … but I think it was even before that when I first started to wonder if the Gods cared any more... or if they even existed...”
**********
5. “…‘tis hard for me to do this…”
“I’m sorry, ‘tis hard for me to do this, so I must ask you to be, um, patient with me,” Rowan said softly, watching his own fingers twisting his ring around. “You’d think it’d get easier with time, that’s what everyone says, but… but they’re wrong. I’m not even really sure where to start, but I suppose it has to be with that bastard Rollo. Duke Rollo of Plait, I should say…” his voice was suddenly oddly harsh, “A man who wanted more than he was entitled to, and he didn’t care what he did to get it…”
“At first,” he said, more calmly, “No-one believed that Rollo really was doing what he was... but after a while, as more and more reports came in to us at Den Siddon, reports of terrible things, the Commandant finally decided that something would have to be done... He should have done something before he did, but… well, he was a useless old bugger, truly. Anyway, there were skirmishes and odd little scraps of fighting here and there, but it wasn’t enough, so… ” he sighed and shook his head sadly.
“He sent two thousand men to deal with it... I was a Captain in the Guards, as I said, and my men and I went with all the rest that were called to Den Siddon. We’d only been playing at soldiers till then... there’s been no war in Yaarl for centuries, and if you believe the old tales this probably wouldn’t even rate a mention… anyway, we’d maintained our skills though most of our duties were purely ceremonial. We used to hold mock battles, tournaments really, against other garrisons in Wirran, and some of the other provinces. There was a bit of friendly rivalry with them all, but especially with the Guard of Plait because it’s the closest province, and we knew a lot of them quite well... some of the men had relatives there…” he looked lost for a moment, but pulled himself together and continued.
“We came against them at Messton-near-Edge. ‘Tis a great plateau bounded on one side by a huge scarp. I suppose there would have been four, four and a half thousand or so of them... I truly can’t tell you how it was...I just can’t... But we were fighting and killing men we knew, men we liked and respected, men we’d got drunk with...” he closed his eyes in pain, then continued with an effort, “Even now I can hear the screams of men and horses, and smell the blood and the sweat and the fear... men died by the hundreds on both sides... it seemed to go on and on forever...” he stopped and sat looking into the fire for a time, seeing nothing, but still seeing too much.
“Eventually of course, the night came and the fighting stopped and both sides collected their wounded and their dead, as best they could...” Rowan continued bleakly, “Of our two thousand men, none was unhurt, less than two hundred might have been able to continue the next day in spite of their wounds, and three hundred or so were so badly injured that most of them wouldn’t live through the night... all the rest were dead... and the casualties of the other side were even higher than ours... Some of the men wanted to slip off in the night, but of course we couldn’t...” He sighed again. “We couldn’t leave our badly wounded comrades and we couldn’t take them with us...”
Bimm and Cris looked at each other in horror, but wisely said nothing as Rowan sat there lost in his memories again.
**********
He’d been the only Captain still more or less able to function and he’d seen to his horse as best he could, set the farriers to the heartbreaking task of killing the badly injured horses and then gone among all the troopers, feeling ill as he saw some of the dreadful wounds and heard the sobbing screams of the most badly injured. He knew he’d inflicted far more than his share of such damage himself on Rollo’s men. The troopers had been pathetically pleased to see him though and had seemed oddly comforted by his presence. He hadn’t expected that and he didn’t really understand it. He went around every tent and tiny campfire and finally found two young Cadets sitting a little apart, shivering and staring at nothing with tears rolling down their faces. They were from Den Siddon, not that that mattered, but it meant he knew their names.
“Thom, Bryn, are you all right?” he said, thinking he’d never asked a more stupid question in his life. They jumped, realised who he was, and tried to salute and stand up at the same time.
“No, no. Stay there, lads… do you think you’d still be able to ride?”
They nodded uncertainly. Incredibly, they only had minor cuts and scrapes, but the horrors of the day had undone them.
“Good lads,” Rowan said, “I have a job for you. Go and find the six best horses you can and bring them back here. I don’t care whose they are. If anyone objects, tell him politely to come and argue with me about it, but you might also warn them that I’m truly not in the mood for it. Oh, and you’ll only need gear for three, just put the others on a long rope. Now I have to find Lieutenant Fess… off you go, lads.”
“Aye, Sir,” they said in unison. Already the thought of having something to do had them looking slightly less shattered, Rowan thought.
He ran Fess to ground outside one of the healers’ tents. His best friend and 2i/c was limping fairly badly and he had a bloodied bandage around his head, but he was more or less cleaned up, and upright and functioning. Rowan thanked the Gods he no longer believed in.
“Fess, I must send a report back to Den Siddon, I’ll write it in a moment. I must tell the old bastard what’s happened here and get him to send some of his damned backup troops right away.” He knew that Rollo would kill them all tomorrow anyway, but in the unlikely event there were any survivors, they’d need help.
“Aye, Rowan. I’ll find someone to take it for you. But you need to see the healers.”
Fess looked at Rowan worriedly. He’d been simply unstoppable on the battlefield. As the other Captains had fallen, Rowan had rallied the troopers to him and kept fighting. Most of Rollo’s men were unwilling to stand against the Champion
and his fierce grey stallion and those brave men who did paid with their lives. So did those who tried to avoid him and attack easier targets. The g’Hakken sabre had risen and fallen with lethal grace and the number of dead men around Rowan and in his wake had steadily risen.
Fess had been a little behind his friend, his own horse not quite able to keep up with swift Mica, and he’d seen the dreadful moment when Rowan had been knocked from his saddle as a halberd ripped into his shoulder. Fess had tried desperately to get to him but the crush of men and horses had simply been too great. Above the noise of battle he’d heard a great groan from Rowan’s men and then the savage scream of an enraged stallion. He’d known it had to be Mica.
Rollo’s men had seen their opportunity to kill the Siannen who’d done such a devastating job of killing them. He was dazed and disarmed, sprawled on the ground near a mountain of dead men. As the Plaitens had rushed forward Mica charged at them, teeth bared and ears flat to his skull, his head lowered so the spike on his armoured headpiece was positioned to cause maximum damage. He gored a man’s chest, snapped at another’s face and reared, flailing at the troopers with his steel-shod hooves, breaking arms and worse in a sudden terrifying attack. Without warning he leapt into the air and kicked out behind him, catching a man in the head and killing him instantly. He whirled and kicked and bit and trampled and gored, a terrible, terrifying creature that none could get past as Rowan managed to sit up.
He’d lost his helmet, which would be no real loss to him as he’d always hated the way it restricted his vision. Blood was streaming down his face, but much worse than that was the halberd lodged in his right shoulder that was now ripping its way down his arm under its own weight. As Mica protected him from all comers, Rowan staggered to his feet and pulled the heavy thing out of his arm as best he could one-handed while trying not to do more damage. He cursed viciously as it came free, skidded down his mailed forearm and smashed into the side of his hand, tearing off his gauntlet and, he thought, possibly a finger or two. A quick glance reassured him only a little. All he could do was push the pain of the injuries as far into the back of his mind as he could, along with the sights and sounds of the battlefield that would otherwise overwhelm him. He thrust the wounded arm and hand through his Captain’s sash as he whistled to his horse, then grabbed his sabre up off the ground and scrambled aboard as Mica came to him.
Fess had thought that Rowan had surely been killed in spite of brave Mica’s efforts, but no. Suddenly there he was. His chainmail was badly torn and dripping with blood and his right arm seemed useless, supported by his Captain’s sash, but he was using his g’Hakken sabre in his left hand to deadly effect.
His troopers had believed him dead too, but they knew that the man on the bloodied dappled-grey stallion that no-one else could ride simply had to be Rowan and his long auburn braid confirmed it. They cheered as Mica surged through Rollo’s men, trampling a couple on the way.
‘Red Rowan! Red Rowan!’ rang across the battlefield, giving heart to every Wirran there and demoralising Rollo’s men who’d been sure he’d finally been killed.
“Gods, Rowan! That was too bloody close!” Fess shouted as the battle surged around them. For a few moments their horses stood in an island of calm.
“Aye, ‘twas! Good thing that silly bastard stabbed with the damned halberd, he’d have taken my arm off if he’d used it properly,” Rowan said as he brushed blood from his eyes and tried to get his breath back. He was finding it wasn’t easy with a broken nose. He looked around him and saw perhaps fifteen or twenty Wirrans on foot, back-to-back and still fighting bravely though they were hopelessly surrounded. No, he decided, that won’t do at all.
“Come on, Fess, with me. We can’t let bloody Rollo kill all of them too. Come on you lot!” he shouted at the troopers around him, his voice hoarse, “If we’re quick we’ll be nearly through them before they realise it. Just go straight through, put our lads up behind you and then go like hell! Meet up on that little knoll over there.”
They’d charged into the mass of struggling men and emerged on the other side with all but one of the desperate Wirrans clinging for dear life onto their comrades and a very large pile of dead and dying men behind them.
Fess shuddered at the memory. He still wasn’t quite sure how they’d managed to save any of the beleaguered Wirrans, but save them they had.
And now he could see that Rowan’s face was bruised and battered and very pale behind the blood still trickling from a couple of deep gashes. He held an inadequate bloodied rag to his nose and seemed unaware that he still wore his battered breastplate and his bloodsoaked chainmail. And he didn’t seem to notice that he couldn’t move his right arm much at all, nor that blood was dripping from his hand in a steady stream. His usually soft voice was rough and gravelly from the day’s unaccustomed shouting.
“Aye, I will when I’ve done that. They’ve got enough to keep themselves busy with for now and they’ve given me some horrible concoction to dull the pain a bit and keep me going, foul stuff that it is. It does the job though. I’m all right, and they’ll bandage me up when they can.” He snuffled a bit through his broken nose as he tried to mop the bleeding up again. “But, Fess, I need you to take the report along with a couple of young lads over there. They’re just finding some horses. You can still ride, can’t you, with your leg?”
“Oh, aye, I think so. But, Rowan…! I can’t leave you and the men like that!”
“Fess, you must. Those two lads are barely eighteen, they’re only Cadets, and they’re too shocked to know what they’re doing unless they’ve got someone with them. And it has to be an officer or the bloody Commandant won’t listen to them. I’m the only Captain left and… well, truly there’s not too many of any of us left now, but you’re the fittest officer I’ve got, so it has to be you.”
Fess stared at him. He still looked mutinous.
“Fess, the truth is that I can’t save these men, not any of them, though I’d give my soul to be able to.” Rowan looked around at his pitifully few remaining troops, not one of them uninjured. He felt like weeping. “Rollo will kill the whole lot of us tomorrow. But at least I might be able to save those two lads, and… look, there’ll be too many young widows weeping when news of this gets out as it is. I just don’t want your Bella to have to be one of them too…”
Fess looked appalled as Rowan continued, his voice shaking a little.
“Please, Fess. Don’t argue with me. Just go, for Bella’s and the baby’s sakes. I’ve lost my wife and baby, but you’ve still got yours. Please, go. Those lads won’t make it through alone, and they’re the only Cadets I could find who can still ride. It truly won’t matter if you’re not here for Rollo to kill too. Fess, I’m begging you to at least let something worthwhile come out of this whole horrible bloody mess.”
Rowan saw that Fess was wavering, but still not happy. Well, he didn’t have to be happy about it. He drew himself up as best he could with his injuries and said the words he’d hoped he’d never have to say like this. His soft hoarse voice suddenly rang with authority.
“Lieutenant Aaronson, go and find those two Cadets, Thom and Bryn, right now please, and then come back to me. You’re to return to Den Siddon with the report I shall give you, at once and at your best speed. Give it into the Commandant’s hands personally, no one else’s. And make sure he reads it and understands what’s happened here. Insist as much as you can that he sends the backup troops, though it will certainly be too late for us. Still, there might be one or two survivors who’ll need help. That’s an order, Lieutenant. Go.”
Fess blinked at him, stunned, but his trained response was automatic, as Rowan had known it would be.
“Aye, Sir. By your command, Sir,” he said stiffly. He saluted, right fist to heart, then turned and limped off to find the two youngest troopers with the horses so he could carry out his Captain’s order.
Rowan watched him go, his face expressionless. He badly wanted to weep, but he couldn’t and wouldn�
�t with his doomed troopers all around him.
“Forgive me, Fess,” he whispered.
**********
Rowan came back to himself with a start. Cris and Bimm were silent, but their shocked faces told him all he needed to know. He wished he’d never started this, but he had… he took a deep breath and continued despite his growing anxiety.
“When the morning came, ‘twas the most beautiful morning. The magpies were singing, and the sun rose up like a great molten ball. As the early mist cleared we could see over the battlefield to the scarp... some of the dead still lay where they’d fallen, and birds were flapping around... but where we thought to see Duke Rollo’s forces getting ready to crush us... there was nothing. A few tattered tents and some dying fires, but nothing else... I took a small group over there. And it was quiet, so quiet... a few crows flew off as we got closer... There were about five or six hundred men there... they were their wounded, all lying in neat rows... and they’d all been killed. They’d murdered their own men and run off in the night.” He stopped again for a moment as the memories crowded around him. Tim Mouser nudged Rowan’s hand, and he looked down at the cat as if surprised to see it there. He stroked the soft fur gently.
“Most of our men stayed behind to look after the other wounded and to make a start on burying the dead... I sent another request for help to Den Siddon, for all the damned good it did any of us, and then those of us who could went after the Duke. Every so often we’d come across the bodies of more soldiers - a lot of Rollo’s men hadn’t liked the way he’d killed the wounded ones... most simply deserted him, but others spoke their mind and got murdered for their trouble.”
“Rollo and his few remaining men - I suppose he would have had less than fifty, all brutal bastards of the worst kind, at the finish - they led us quite a chase for five days, but we caught up with them at Trill...”
“’Tis...” he shook his head and took another deep breath, “’Twas a pretty little town of perhaps three or four hundred or so folk. As we got nearer, we found… we found that all the men working in the fields around the town had been killed... and as we got into the town itself, we found that every man, woman and child had been slaughtered where they stood... the women had all been raped too, even the old grandmas... and the... the little girls... and there was a group of young women and their children and ... and babies by the village well... and they were all dead... all of them, except for one tiny baby cuddled against his mother, whimpering. For a moment, I truly thought that Rollo’s men must have missed him somehow, but of course they hadn’t… they just hadn’t bothered to finish the job. He… he died in my arms. ” Rowan struggled to continue. “I couldn’t bear it… I’d lost Zara, my wife… and… and our baby not long before… this is Zara’s ring that I wear…”
