by Helen Gosney
“Aye, that he is. But don’t you remember, Fess? I gave you the report and I gave a fair copy of it to Thom and Bryn in case… well, truly, in case anything happened to you. I told the lads to hang onto theirs no matter what, unless of course yours was lost. I told them to keep them safe until either you or I ask for them. Of course, I didn’t think I ever would, but they didn’t realise that…” He thought for a moment. “And I did the same when I sent the second report with Sergeant Crenna and young Sammi and, er, Thorl. Those lads will still have theirs squirrelled away safely somewhere. I’m not sure whether Cholli did the same.”
Fess brightened.
“Bugger me! I’d forgotten all about that, what with everything else. Of course they’ll still have them, you gave them a direct order.” He smiled at Rowan. “Just as well you did too, all of us were too bloody stunned to do anything at all otherwise. We’d all still be sitting there waiting for Rollo.”
His quick grin faded as he saw Rowan’s renewed misery.
“Fess…” Rowan began hesitantly, “When we… when we got back from Trill… well, I couldn’t bloody believe it, that… that there wasn’t anyone there helping the lads, and I thought… truly, I thought we’d all be better to die along the way, at least trying to get back, rather than… than just sitting there waiting for it. So, that’s what we did…” he blinked quickly several times and hung his head.
“Rowan, please don’t…” Fess said worriedly, “You don’t have to go over it all now…”
Rowan looked up and for a moment his weary eyes were fiery.
“Aye, I do, Fess. I do. Because when we’d been struggling along for a day or so, Sergeant Nils and the lads arrived. Beldar’s breeks! I’ve never been so pleased to see anyone in my life! We’d never have got anyone back if not for them… they’re the real heroes in all this. Anyway, he’s got the reports I wrote on the way home… Remember old Captain Telli drumming it into us to ‘always write it down, lads’?”
He looked down at his maimed right hand for a moment, glad that he’d been able to use the other one just as well. Captain Telli had always said it was a useful talent, and he’d been right.
Fess’s eyes widened as Rowan continued.
“Well, it was very bloody clear that the Commandant didn’t want to know… I suppose he thought we’d all just… just die out there, and nobody’d ever know what had really happened or be able to prove anything anyway… he’d just, just tie it all up in damned red tape and… well, who knows what the old bastard was thinking? But I decided I wasn’t going to let him get away with it… So, I… I just kept on writing reports when I could… recording the lads we lost, and… well, anyway, Nils has them. The one from Trill too… there was nobody fit enough to send it back with before then… and I think there was one from Cholli as well… maybe they’ll all be of some help.” Rowan hesitated for a moment. “Fess, lad, ‘tis your garrison now. You’ll be Captain here when whoever’s the new Commandant ratifies it. I didn’t think I’d be handing it over just yet, and…I’m sorry to… to leave it to you in such a mess, but could you… could you see it all gets done, please? I truly can’t stay here in Den Siddon, it’s just… it’s just too hard. Besides, I’m a bloody civilian now. Just let me know when you want me to come and say my bit.”
Fess stared at him. His garrison… he’d be Captain of Den Siddon … he’d heard Rowan say it in the parade ground, but somehow it just hadn’t seemed real. For a moment the enormity of it almost overwhelmed him. He thought of Rowan’s little band of ragged survivors who’d come into the parade ground in such good order in spite of their circumstances; thought of Rowan still leading them somehow; thought of all the men who’d fought and died so bravely. No, he couldn’t fail them all again. He simply couldn’t.
“Aye, Rowan. I’ll do it with pleasure. Telli should be here in a day or so too, so he can make himself useful and help out. We’ll make that bastard pay for what he did, don’t worry… I haven’t looked forward to something so much in years!” He reddened suddenly. “Bloody Hells! Don’t tell Bella I said that!”
**********
11. “He was fairly sure of the way…”
Fess led a little troop of four men and five spare horses towards the Sleeping Dog Mountains. He’d been concerned and fretting at the unavoidable delays while Telli arrived from Den Sorl to take control of the garrison and some sort of order returned. And now that he’d spoken with the healers who’d done such a good job at Messton, he was very worried indeed about Rowan. He wished for the thousandth time that his friend had stayed in Den Siddon to recover from his injuries, but of course the stubborn bugger hadn’t and all the wishing and wanting in the world couldn’t change it. His thoughts were interrupted…
“Sir… Sir, there’s something odd about these tracks we’re following…” the Pathfinder looked and sounded puzzled.
“What do you mean, Tayoh?” Fess demanded, more brusquely than he’d intended.
“Well, I don’t know really, Sir, but they…” Tayoh saw the frown on his new C.O’s face and hurried on, “Sir, it’s an odd gait. ‘Tisn’t a canter or a gallop and ‘tisn’t a trot either. Mind you, they’ve made a good speed with it and are keeping it up well enough…” he was surprised to see the frown replaced by a tiny smile that brightened Fess’s worried face for a moment.
“Well, at least we’re following the right tracks then, Tayoh,” he said, “That’s one of Mica’s natural gaits and it’s so good for travelling long distances that Rowan’s taught it to Soot too. And some of the other troop horses as well…” Not this one, though, he thought sadly as his own mount’s stride jarred his barely-healed leg. Probably most were lost at bloody Messton.
“But what is it, Sir?” Tayoh wanted know. It really was a very strange track.
“I don’t know, really. Rowan thinks the horse canters in front and trots behind… or something like that. Sounds bloody daft, doesn’t it?” Fess shrugged. “All I know is that it’s a very comfortable gait for horse and rider, very kind to the backside, and Mica and Soot can keep it up for hours if need be.”
“Mmm… well, he’s certainly keeping going, Sir. Straight for the Dogleg Pass by the look of it, just as you thought.”
Fess nodded. Of course Rowan would have gone through the Dogleg Pass: any forester would. Fess had been through it himself a good few times, with Rowan of course, and he was fairly sure of the way. Not quite sure enough of the way to have not brought the Pathfinder though.
**********
“This is the Captain’s camp, Sir. He got a good long way that first day,” Tayoh said, looking around at a sheltered little spot by a shallow creek. He wouldn’t mind stopping here himself for a bit, but he thought it unlikely with a few hours of daylight left. “Do you want to keep going, Sir, or…?”
Fess looked around too. The remnants of a tiny fire, carefully extinguished. Not much else. Rowan travelled light and travelled fast, and it seemed that his injuries hadn’t slowed him down all that much. Of course his horses’ very smooth gaits must have helped a lot. Why had he ever thought that he, Fess, might catch up with him? Rowan had more than a week’s start. But surely he couldn’t keep it up, could he? Fess sighed and glanced up at the sky.
“Aye, we’ll keep on for as long as we can see where we’re going. Refill the canteens, please, lads, and we’ll swap over the horses. Get out some waybread or something, too,” he said slowly, “Ten minutes and then we’ll go. We’ll eat as we ride.”
“Aye, Sir!” came the chorus as the troopers hurried to do his bidding.
**********
A few days later and they were almost at the top of the Dogleg Pass. Rowan was slowing down at last and earlier that afternoon the Pathfinder had pointed to a patch of crumpled ferns and the rusty splash of dried blood on the big rock in the centre of them.
“I… I think he’s fallen here, Sir, but I’m not sure what’s happened…” he said slowly, “It looks like he’s not done himself any bloody good, though, Sir…”<
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“But why would he fall here? It’s steep, but the footing seems all right…”
The Pathfinder frowned as he looked around more closely.
“No, Sir, look. He’s slipped on a patch of moss there and that rock’s turned under his foot. With his arm in a sling he probably couldn’t get his balance. And he must have lain there for a while, the ferns and things are still not standing up properly. Maybe he… maybe he hit his head, Sir, knocked himself out…” his voice trailed off.
The thought of Red Rowan laying unconscious and unaided in the middle of nowhere like that was deeply disturbing to all of the men.
“But he must have got going again, Sir. He’s not here, is he? His horses aren’t here and they wouldn’t leave him, would they, Sir?” Corporal Falla spoke up. He was from Den Tyril and he’d been among the troops that the Commandant had kept in reserve at Den Siddon. He desperately wanted to find and help the brave man who’d somehow managed to get so many of his injured troopers home from Messton in spite of his own wounds.
“No… no, they wouldn’t,” Fess replied, trying to pull himself together. Everyone took a tumble sometime, even Rowan, he told himself sternly. But he’s all right, he’s kept going. The daft bugger. “Well, let’s keep moving, lads. It’s not too far from the Breath Stealer here. The Scream, Rowan’s clan call it. There’s a good place to camp on this side and we’ll stop for the night there, get an early start tomorrow.”
“Aye, Sir.”
**********
“Dear Gods, Sir. Is that it? Is that the… er, the Breath Stealer?” Troopers Jerrald and Hanse looked across at the notorious and generally avoided track very warily indeed. It was probably the last place they’d ever expected to find themselves.
The way was narrow and rocky and icy in parts, but Fess was relieved to see that it looked more or less passable. It ran around the face of a mighty crag before disappearing between that and a second great snow-capped peak. Huge white birds circled idly above the rocks, riding the strong cold winds that always blew up here, their enormous outstretched wings showing no visible effort at all. By itself the track would be daunting enough, but the terrifying sheer drop of nearly a thousand feet showed that its fearsome reputation was probably well deserved.
“Aye, that’s it,” Fess replied, “Only madmen and foresters ever come up here, so they say.”
“Bloody Hells. I can see why, Sir.”
“How the hell are we going to get the horses over that, Sir?”
We’d have no bloody problem if only Rowan was here, Fess thought unhappily. As it is… “Rowan says the foresters blindfold their horses and sing to them as they lead them across. If our horses refuse to go over, then they’ll be left behind and we’ll bloody walk to Sian. I’m not going to let a miserable little bit of track like that stop me.” Certainly Rowan wouldn’t have.
“No, Sir. Er… aye, Sir,” Jerrald said. Something took his attention. “Sir… who’s that?” He pointed to the far end of the Breath Stealer, careful not to look down.
Two men came out of the shadows and looked around, and one threw something behind him. Fess couldn’t see exactly what it was, but he thought he could make a good guess as he saw one of the huge birds suddenly drop a bit lower in the sky. He knew the foresters always left something for the birds to eat when they came through here. The men turned and started to trot across the Scream one after the other, as if they did it every day of their lives. They were both big men, tall and lean and strong looking and they ran with the same long effortless stride that Rowan did.
Fess smiled for a moment.
“It’s got to be either madmen or foresters up here, lad,” he said, “Hmm… they’ve both got braids, and they’ve been feeding the birds, so they must be foresters. A couple of their hunters, if I’m not mistaken, but what the hell are they doing up here?” Game was plentiful in Sian and hunting was good, without having to resort to coming up to this magnificent, Godsforsaken place.
“Looks like they’re in a hurry, Sir,” Hanse said as the foresters hurdled a boulder and kept coming towards them, “Gods, they’re big buggers, Sir.”
“Aye, most of them are,” Fess replied absently, “And most of them are a lot more heavily built then these two, but their hunters run about so much that they’re never very bulky.” He himself stood at just over six feet three, but he could see that these fellows stood at least three or four inches taller than that and were well- muscled without carrying extra weight. Both had a bow, a quiver and a small pack on his back and a heavy hunting knife at each hip. They trotted up to Fess and his troopers and stopped a little way away.
“Hello, lads, I’m surprised to see you up here. Lost, are you? Or are you Wirrans sending your own madmen up here now?” the slightly smaller one said with a bright smile. They were both good-looking men, probably in their early thirties, and they had brown eyes and dark brown hair woven into a single heavy plait that fell to their waists. Fess could see that their braids had blue threads woven into them. Hmm… he’d met quite a few foresters over the years, but he didn’t think he’d met these particular fellows.
“Ah! Where are my bloody manners! I’m Caleb d’Ronal d’Rhodry del’Quist,” the forester added and extended a hand, “This lump here is my brother, Callan.”
“Fess Aaronson, Lieutenant, er, Captain of Den Siddon,” Fess said, hastily shaking the other men’s hands. “No, we’re not lost, we’re…” his voice faltered as he realised what Caleb had said. Del’Quist. Del bloody Quist. “Are you… are you from Borl Quist?” he managed.
The Siannens looked at him, wide-eyed, and suddenly they reminded him very much of Rowan.
“Yes, we’re from Borl Quist,” Callan said, sounding puzzled. Didn’t Caleb just bloody say so, you daft bugger, he thought.
“Do you know of Rowan d’Rhys… um… d’Rhuary? Do you have news of him?”
“Of course we know of him, Captain. He’s our kinsman… his grandfather, Rhuary, and ours, Rhodry, were brothers…” Caleb saw the hope flare in the Wirran’s worried looking face, “But as for news of him… there is news of him, and none of it good, I’m sorry to say.”
“Tell me! Gods. My apologies, but please, you must tell me. He’s my best friend and he saved my life,” Fess tried to stay calm, but it was hard, so hard. “Is he all right? Did he get home safely? Is he…?”
Caleb put a huge hand on Fess’s shoulder.
“Hush. Hush, now, and I’ll tell you all that we know. You’re from Den Siddon, you said? ‘Tis where I’m bound, and Callan’s headed for the g’Hakken,” Caleb could see that Fess was desperate for news of his friend and he hurried on, “He’s still alive, or was when we left Borl Quist three days ago. But he…” he shook his head and looked away for a moment, “… I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but ‘tis most likely that he’ll have died by now, poor brave lad…”
Fess stared at him in horror and shook his head, as if his denial could somehow change things.
“No. No, he can’t be… his wounds were healing… he… he said they weren’t so bad…” he managed, but he thought about what Master Healer Farran had told him and knew that yes, Rowan’s wounds were serious. But even so, the healer had believed that Rowan would be all right.
The hunters glanced quickly at each other, and then looked at Fess very carefully. They could see the recently healed scar on his forehead, see too that he was favouring a leg, and they wondered if he’d been at the same place that Rowan had. Wherever in the Nether Hells that was.
“Well, they weren’t bloody scratches either and I’d be interested to know just how he came by them, but ‘tisn’t the wounds that’re the problem, really,” Callan said slowly, “He came home with the cursed lung fever, and so damned ill he could hardly stay on the horse. The healer thought he wouldn’t last the night…” he heard the shocked gasps of the Wirrans. They knew as well as he did that very few ever survived the lung fever, and certainly not someone as desperately ill as Rowan was.
“I’m sorry, lads. We truly don’t know if he’s still alive. He was unconscious and barely holding on when we left to carry word to Den Siddon and the dwarves. Thorn, that’s our healer, he… he drained a hell of a lot of fluid from Rowan’s lungs so that he might breathe better. Griff said he couldn’t watch it, but the damned stuff just kept pouring out of Rowan’s chest… Surely he’d be better without all that fluid and muck inside him, wouldn’t he…?” Caleb said, trying hard to believe it himself.
Fess’s heart sank even further. He’d never heard of anything like that, but it sounded like last ditch, desperation stuff to him.
“Anyway, he… the poor lad was fighting for every breath, but with all those broken ribs, he, he was struggling… he looked and sounded dreadful…” Caleb blinked away tears. He could see that Fess and the troopers were stunned. They’d obviously had no idea of the extent of Rowan’s injuries and of course they’d known nothing of the lung fever.
“We… we must keep going…” Fess managed.
“How are you going to get your horses across the Scream?” Callan asked quietly.
Fess stared at the narrow, dangerous crossing. How the hell WAS he going to get the horses across it? And how the hell could he walk to Sian with his barely-healed leg if he couldn’t do it? Suddenly all of his plans seemed ridiculous.
The foresters watched his face for a moment, then glanced at each other again and nodded.
“We’ll help you,” Callan said, “But we can’t go all the way back to Borl Quist with you, we’ve got to carry word to Wirran.”
“Aye, thank you. We won’t get lost, but… but how will we get across…?”
“I’ll show you. Now, this’d be a bloody sight easier if only young Rowan was here, but still…” Callan tore a strip off the bottom of his shirt and tied it around the head of Fess’s horse as a blindfold. “Bind their eyes like this and then Caleb and I’ll take them over. Someone can come with us to keep an eye on them on the other side, and somebody stay behind to look after those here.”
