Red Rowan: Book 2: All Gone, the Gods

by Helen Gosney

  Cris stared in astonishment at his two old friends.

  “But… but how on earth do you know all this?” Cris managed to say.

  Tadeus shrugged.

  “Don’t look so astounded, Cris,” said Hess, “News of all sorts travels from one Temple to another faster than you’d believe, and the Tabernacle is no better.”

  “And you’ve decided to go with them, haven’t you?” he added, to Cris’s further surprise.

  “Yes… yes, I have… but how do you know?” Stunning though Tadeus’ story had been, it didn’t alter anything at all as far as Cris could see.

  “We’ve both got eyes in our heads, young Cris,” Tadeus explained patiently, “and we still know how to use them, even if they’re not quite what they used to be. You said you thought your new friends might be thinking of going to the Forbidden Mountains… when Hess and I were talking about it later, we both thought you’d go with them.”

  “But… I didn’t even really know myself then,” Cris said, amazed at the perception of his two old friends.

  “Well, the One works in mysterious ways…”

  **********

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

  The Commandant’s jaw had dropped as he realised just who it was leading the ragged little convoy. No. It couldn’t be him, he thought in horror. That cursed man has more lives than a bloody cat. He looked more closely as the grey stallion came nearer. Hmm… he doesn’t look too good… that arm and hand are obviously useless, but there’s something else… his side, or his chest perhaps… he doesn’t seem to be breathing well… The Commandant made his decision as Rowan stopped his stallion foursquare in front of him. It was a very bad decision, and the last in a very long line of them. He drew his sabre.

  Rowan raised an eyebrow at him.

  “You truly shouldn’t have done that, Sir, with all due respect,” he said softly, “I think most of my men here would consider it an insult, especially when we’ve just got ourselves back home with no damned help from you. Truly, Sir, you’ve already insulted all of us more than is wise.” And if you touch me, you bloody fool, they’ll tear you to pieces. They might anyway. He could hear the shocked gasps and muttering from the troopers.

  “I’m the one holding the sabre here,” the Commandant sneered, “I don’t give a damn about your… being insulted.”

  Rowan smiled slightly.

  “I’m so pleased to hear you say that, Sir, and I’m sure all of these men are too,” he said.

  Suddenly Mica leapt forward, snapped at the Commandant’s bay stallion and knocked into it very solidly. The poor beast recoiled from Mica’s teeth, reared and almost fell, and the Commandant hit the ground hard. His sabre flew from his hand and before he could retrieve it Rowan had dismounted and kicked the sword far out of reach.

  The Commandant stared at him in horror for an endless moment. Even badly hurt and in a lot of pain as he undoubtedly was, Rowan was every inch the Champion and he looked very, very dangerous. Unpredictably so. And then the moment was gone. The Commandant screamed and screamed again.

  “Hush now,” Rowan said calmly, almost gently. His sabre whispered out of its scabbard and he held it at the Commandant’s throat, just above the high collar of his dress uniform, his hand rock-steady. “I have things to say that the men and you need to hear…”

  **********

  Rowan stared at the Commandant who he’d kicked very hard in the groin. Twice. It wasn’t something he’d thought he’d ever do to anyone, but nobody deserved it more than this man, and it had certainly got his attention. The g’Hakken sabre at his throat had quietened him down nicely too. How easy it would be to just press a little bit harder with the sabre, Rowan thought, it wouldn’t take much, and nobody here would give a damn if I did.

  The reserve troops knew the truth of the Commandant’s refusal to send them to help their injured comrades at Messton now and they could see how desperate their need had truly been. He didn’t know why the Commandant had acted as he had and truly, he no longer cared. All that mattered was that he had. And he, Rowan, had managed to get some of his men and himself back here to do something about it.

  “I relieve you of your command. Sir. You are unfit to lead this garrison,” he said quietly, but he knew that every man in the parade ground could hear him. Apart from the Commandant’s whimpers of pain and fear there wasn’t a sound. “And I charge you with dereliction of duty and betrayal of our injured men, and I’m sure there’ll be other charges as well. Cowardice in the face of the enemy springs to mind. You will hang, you bastard, if I have anything to do with it. You are beneath contempt.” He said a single g’Hakken phrase that expressed his feelings better and shocked the few speakers of Dwar in the garrison, and then he turned to the nearest troopers, standing staring at him open-mouthed and appalled as all of the men were. “Arrest this… this person, chain him and put him in the dungeon. He will face courtmartial as soon as it can be arranged, and he’s to remain there until then. And treat his family with respect please, this is none of their doing. Can someone pick those damned medals up, please?”

  He bit his lip so as not to groan at the pain in his injured ribs as he tried to breathe evenly, but his hand holding the sabre at the Commandant’s throat never wavered. A trooper hastily picked up the medals the Commandant had dropped when he fell from his horse. Rowan glanced at them for a moment, his battered face unreadable and then he looked up at the assembled troopers.

  “I commend these men who have served so bravely at Messton and at Trill to you all. They’ve suffered so much, overcome so much… I am truly humbled by them. And I commend those who carried the dispatches regardless of personal danger too. It wasn’t their fault that the Commandant chose to ignore them, they truly did do all they could,” he said quietly, “And now I transfer command of this garrison to my 2i/c, Lieutenant Fess Aaronson. Now Captain Fess Aaronson.”

  He resheathed his sabre and then he tore his Captain’s insignia from his sleeves and dropped the tattered, bloodied rags on top of the Commandant where he lay curled around himself, sobbing. Finally he dropped the medals on him as well, kicked him again as hard as he could, and turned and walked away with Mica at his shoulder. Behind him the Commandant screamed in agony as he’d desperately wanted to, but hadn’t dared with Rowan’s sabre at his throat.

  The men of the garrison stood a little straighter and saluted Rowan as one, and the exhausted, ragged survivors of Messton saluted him as he walked past them. Cheers and shouts of “Red Rowan! Red Rowan!” rang through the parade ground, drowning out the Commandant’s anguished screams as four troopers moved to obey their Captain’s last command to them. He’d given everything he had for his men and they wouldn’t forget it.

  Rowan turned carefully to face the men and they fell silent.

  “Thank you, lads,” he said, his face desolate, “But please… don’t call me ‘Red’ now. It just… it just reminds me of all the blood on my hands… of this whole sorry mess. I’ll remember it without that. Would you send a squad to… to Messton, please, to see to all those who still lie there. There are some men on the side of the track too, we couldn’t…” he shook his head slowly, “They deserve a dignified and respectful burial for their courage and sacrifice. Perhaps make a cairn for them… you men can decide what should be done, what’s the right thing to do… And please, take good care of all these brave men here. I’m sorry I couldn’t get more of them home…”

  He and Mica walked away to stunned silence. His face was very pale beneath its layer of blood and grime, and he seemed to be struggling to breathe, but he was startlingly determined to simply keep going.

  **********

  After Rowan left the parade ground he’d gone back to the stables, settled Mica, and then checked his black stallion’s injured leg. It had kept Soot away from Messton, but all was well now. Rowan thought about the Commandant and smiled for the first time in a long while. He knew none of the troopers would be in a hurry to
arrest him, but even so he thought perhaps he should get a move on.

  Back in his quarters, he’d found himself overcome with the grief he’d had to suppress for too long. Heartbroken, he’d sat on the neatly made bed and wept for his beautiful Zara and their lost son. He’d wept for the troopers of Wirran and Plait and yes, for their poor horses too. Finally he pulled himself together somehow and cleaned himself up as best he could, discarding the tattered filthy uniform he’d worn for far too long. His wardrobe was limited though, so he’d simply put on leather trousers and an old uniform shirt with as many insignia removed as he’d been able. There hadn’t been much he could do about the embroidered eagle of Den Siddon, but it was mostly hidden by his silver-studded leather vest.

  He’d gone back to the stables again and was standing between his two stallions when both horses tensed beside him and snorted. He turned as quickly as he could, to see a tall blonde Guardsman leaning on a stout walking stick in the doorway of the stables.

  “Fess! Are you all right? What about Thom and Bryn?” he said, his tone relieved as his friend limped towards him. He’d seen him in the parade ground, but he’d been too far away to speak to him.

  “Aye, I’m all right… Thom and Bryn are a lot better too, they’ll be fine I think,” Fess said uneasily, “But Rowan… I’m almost too ashamed to stand here before you… that bloody Commandant, he wouldn’t listen to me… he didn’t even want to read your report, but … well, he did, finally, when he saw I wasn’t going to go away until he had.” Poor Fess was nearly in tears. “Rowan, I tried, I truly did try, but he just wouldn’t send the other troops… it made no difference what I did or what I said… even after the second report came with Sergeant Crenna and the lads, when he knew that you and the men were still alive and really needed help, he… he… Rowan, I told him how terrible things were, we all did, but…”

  Rowan put his good arm around his distraught friend’s shoulders.

  “Fess, it’s not your fault. Truly. We both know the old bastard hates me, but… well, I didn’t realise quite how much, I suppose. I thought he’d only be worried about trying to help the men, especially when Rollo didn’t kill the lot of us as I’d thought he would, but… Fess, believe me, it’s not your fault.” He looked up at Fess, hating to see him so distressed.

  “Rowan, there was nearly a riot. The men wanted to go to you and do what they could, of course they did, but… that old bastard said he’d see them all hanged. Even so, some of them did, after a couple of days.” Rowan nodded gratefully. He’d sent them back to barracks just out of sight of Den Siddon. “The others covered for them, but…well, there was nearly a mutiny. Maybe it would have been better if there had been…”

  “No!” Rowan said hurriedly. “Well, aye, it truly would have been a lot better for us at Messton, to have had more help, but… none of us wanted to see more of our friends die because of the bloody Commandant.” He sighed. “Fess, nobody else is blaming you, so why should you be blaming yourself? I know you did all you could. The men who were at Messton know you did all you could too. And now all the troopers here know the truth of it as well.”

  Fess brightened.

  “Aye, that was the best thing I’ve ever seen, I think! Truly, I was almost too ashamed to go, but I just had to. I couldn’t believe that old bastard would… would just pretend nothing had happened.” His face hardened. “And then he pulled a bloody sabre on you! Why didn’t you kill him and be done with it?”

  “I wanted to, Fess. I can’t tell you how much I wanted to, but I…” Rowan shook his head slowly, not really sure why he hadn’t. Perhaps because it would make him no better than Rollo and his murderers. Killing in battle was one thing, but killing in cold blood was quite another. And killing a man who’d been disarmed…No, not even this man. “Anyway, he’s not worth hanging for. We’ve talked about that before…”

  They had, too, many times over the years. But it had only ever been a joke between them before. Fess knew that nobody would hang anyone, and particularly not Rowan, for killing the man now. He’d been lucky the men hadn’t rioted when he’d pulled his sabre like that.

  “That was all I could manage to do anyway. If I’d tried anything else I’d have fallen over, I think. I damned nearly landed on my backside as it was and that would never have done in front of the men, would it?”

  “No, it wouldn’t.” Fess paused, looking at his friend. Most of his bruises had faded, and his cuts were healing, but his broken nose still looked swollen and painful. His right arm was in a bloodied, ragged sling that looked to be the same one he’d improvised from his Captain’s red sash at Messton. He looked thinner and more worn than Fess had ever seen him and he seemed to be moving very cautiously.

  “Rowan, I want to… Bella and I…” he decided to simply say what he needed to. “Thank you, Rowan. Thank you for sending me back from Messton. You saved my life.”

  He started to hug his friend, but felt him flinch and heard his stifled gasp of pain.

  “Are you all right?” Fess asked worriedly.

  Rowan nodded.

  “Aye, more or less. That bastard Rollo just broke a couple of ribs and cut me a bit. ’Tis nothing really,” he lied, hoping Fess wouldn’t notice. It could be hard to get things past Fess. He hurried on. “But it hurts like hell.” That at least was the truth; every breath felt like daggers going into his chest. “And you truly don’t need to thank me for sending you out into danger in the middle of the night with a couple of terrified lads, an injured leg and spooked horses, so that a vital report that the Commandant would completely ignore would get through… ‘tis just what friends do for each other.”

  They grinned at each other, the tension eased.

  “No, I suppose I don’t, when you put it like that,” Fess said, feeling a lot better. He frowned suddenly though. “Rowan, what are you doing?”

  Both of his horses were bridled and had saddle bags slung over their bare backs.

  “What? Oh. I was just checking the horses. Mica’s lucky his cuts weren’t a bit deeper, but he’s all right, and Soot’s leg is fine again, so I can…” his voice trailed away as he saw the concern in his friend’s face.

  “Rowan, you can’t just go riding off again like that with broken ribs! Where do you think you’re bloody going anyway? Come and stay with us while your wounds heal. Bella will never forgive me if I just let you …”

  There was a sudden, familiar determination in Rowan’s eyes.

  “But you’re not ‘letting me’ do anything Fess. You’re just not going to stop me, and neither is anyone else, unless you’re planning to sit on me and tie me up,” he said reasonably. “But please, please, don’t do that. The horses are very edgy, I think they can probably smell the blood.”

  Bloody Hells. At Messton Fess had seen what battle trained Mica could do to a man who was trying to fight Rowan, and he knew that Soot could and would do the same. Rowan normally had complete control over the stallions, but they did seem tense.

  “Besides,” Rowan continued tiredly, “I’ve got back here from Trill with broken ribs, so I think I can probably get a bit further.”

  “But, Rowan, why? Why not stay here for a bit and recover?”

  Rowan sighed again and shook his head. He looked very weary, but as obstinate as ever.

  “The truth of it is, Fess… I just want to go home. ‘Tis as simple as that. There are too many memories here now… Zara and I were so happy here… I, I just can’t bear it… I walked into our quarters and…” he almost wept again.

  “Will you at least come and see Bella and little Rowan before you go?”

  Rowan stared at him in confusion.

  “Little who? I thought your baby’s name was Stefan, after his grandfather.”

  “Aye, it was. But it isn’t now. We renamed him after a good friend we thought we’d lost at Messton,” Fess said simply.

  Rowan’s eyes widened.

  “I’m honoured, Fess, truly honoured. But no, I have to go… I just have to. Don’
t worry, though. The healers say they’ll bind my ribs again and rebandage everything else before I leave and give me enough of their bloody potions to get me there… they don’t want to, but they will. It’s easier than sitting on me, I suppose.” He smiled at Fess. “I’ll be all right. I’ll come back and see little… little Rowan when I’m feeling a bit stronger. Could you give me a leg-up onto Soot, please?”

  “If I don’t, it won’t stop you, will it?”

  Rowan grinned at him.

  “What do you think?”

  “No, I thought not. You stubborn bugger.”

  “If I wasn’t stubborn, Fess, Rollo would be back in Plait right now, regrouping, and I’d still be sitting at Messton listening to the men scream and watching them die around me,” Rowan said bleakly. “And it would have all been for nothing.”

  “How the hell did you get any of them back at all?”

  Rowan shook his head.

  “I don’t know really… I just…I just did. I couldn’t have without those extra troopers risking themselves like that though. It breaks my heart that I couldn’t get more of the lads back, but… but I’m like you, Fess. I did the best I could with what I had… and there’s no point in blaming myself for not being able to do better than that…” That won’t stop me from doing it though, he thought sadly, and it probably won’t stop Fess either.

  Fess sighed.

  “Aye, you’re right… But I wish you’d just come home with me now.” He looked at Rowan again and shook his head in resignation. “Bring Soot over here, then. And be careful, Rowan. I’ll need you to teach my little lad to ride properly, like you taught me when poor old Trav had nearly given up.”

  Rowan nodded. The little fellow was only a few weeks old.

  “The Commandant will hang, you know,” he said quietly.

  “Aye, well, so he bloody should. But the bastard burnt all of the reports right in front of me… even so, you and I and the lads can still testify, I suppose. But he’s such a slippery old bugger…”