by Helen Gosney
Fess stared at the brothers in amazement.
“And you’re going to take them all like that?” he said, “Are you both Whisperers too?”
Caleb and Callan looked at each other again and laughed.
“No. Not like Rowan is, I’m sorry to say,” Caleb chuckled, “He’s the only one I’ve ever heard of who can take a big group across with no fuss and bother at all. But a lot of our kin have a… a way with horses, I suppose you’d say; we can do it one at a time. You’ll see…”
It was certainly a lot more difficult and a lot slower to get the horses across the Scream without Rowan’s calming presence, but all the same the foresters did have a way with the animals as they took them carefully, one at a time, across the chasm. They sang softly as they went and the nervous horses relaxed noticeably.
“What do you suppose it is they’re singing, Sir?” Gerral asked Fess quietly, “Is it a charm of some sort?”
Fess listened carefully to the beguiling tune being sung in soft musical Siannen. He laughed, much to his troopers’ surprise.
“No, ‘tisn’t a charm. It’s a very bawdy song the foresters sing to keep their rhythm when they’re working in the forest… ‘The Bishop and the Bordello’, they call it. It’s a bit like, um, ‘The High Priest and the Harlot’, which you may or may not know. ‘The Priest and the Prostitute’, some know it as.” He smiled happily for a moment. “Rowan says every forester knows at least two dozen verses, but they’re not always the same two dozen as everyone else’s… Gods only know how many verses there actually are.”
Gerral and Tayoh gaped at him. The very vulgar song they, and most troopers, knew sounded quite unlike this lilting Siannen version, although the tune was perhaps vaguely similar.
In a much shorter time than they’d believed possible, the Wirrans found themselves and all of their horses safely on the Siannen side of the Scream.
“I don’t know how to thank you both,” Fess said gratefully.
Caleb smiled at him. Rowan’s smile, Fess thought.
“You don’t need to thank us, truly. I just hope that… that Rowan is still alive when you get to Borl Quist, but…” he sighed, “I’m sorry, Fess, but you truly do need to prepare yourself for the worst.”
“Prepare for the worst and hope for the best, Rowan always says,” Fess said quietly.
Caleb smiled again.
“All foresters say that, and we all do it too,” he chuckled and then became serious again. “Now, don’t make camp near the Southern Fang. ‘Tis liable to drop great bits of rock on you, and we saw a couple of fresh falls over there, so be careful. And don’t let those greedy bloody birds tell you we didn’t leave something for them either.”
“No, we saw you do it. And we’ll be careful of the Fang too. Thank you,” Fess said as he and his troopers got themselves organised again. He watched as Callan and Caleb trotted across the Scream again, turned and waved at them all and then disappeared down the steep track to Wirran.
“Come on lads, this way,” he said, “We’ve still got a good long way to go and it’ll take us a damned sight longer than it took those two.”
**********
12. “… he doesn’t know how to give up or when to do it.”
The new Captain of the Guard at Den Siddon created quite a stir when he rode into Borl Quist at the head of his little troop of four men. The Pathfinder had lost Rowan’s trail a while ago and so they’d ridden through the little town. Fess had been here before of course, many times, and he knew that Rowan’s family lived out of the town a bit, but all the narrow lanes leading off into the trees still looked the same to him. He’d looked around at the smithy and the mill on the swift-flowing river, the timber depot and the inn and little stores and shops; it was certainly bigger than a village, but it really wasn’t a big town. Mind you, tucked into the trees as it was, it was hard to see its full extent. There were quite a few neat rambling timber houses with their bountiful gardens at the front and barns and stables at the back, and trees, such trees, everywhere. Of course there were trees in the mountains around Den Siddon and even more on the journey to Sian, but not like these glorious towering monsters alive with noisy birds and scampering creatures. No wonder Rowan said he missed the trees of home. All the Wirran troopers gaped at them.
Fess pulled his little troop off to the side of the track as he searched for a landmark. Where the hell was the ironbark that marked the end of the track where Rowan’s family lived? The little knowledge Fess had of trees had completely deserted him. He thought he’d come too far, but… no, it was time to swallow the bloody pride and simply ask.
They could rattle around here forever and still not find what they sought. He’d come as quickly as he could, but it had been chaos after Messton with so many men dead, and he’d had to wait until Captain Telli had arrived to take command of the garrison. Rowan had made surprisingly good time too, at least until he’d left the mountains.
There was a fellow with an oxcart hauling a load of massive logs just ahead. The Siannen turned his head as he heard their horses.
Bugger me, he thought. Wirrans, and Guardsmen at that. Don’t see too many of them out here.
“A good day to you,” he said politely in excellent Wirran, much to the troopers’ surprise, “If you’re looking for Rhys d’Rhuary’s little lad, you’ve missed the turn. ‘Tis the second one back from here on the left, the one with the ironbark, then ‘tis the house right at the far end.”
Fess stared at him for a moment. How could he possibly know…? Common sense reasserted itself: what else would Wirran Guardsmen be doing here, if not looking for Rowan?
“Dammit, I thought we’d missed the bloody thing,” Fess replied in fluent Siannen, surprising both the drover and his own troopers again. He knew the Siannens considered it polite to address folk in their own language if possible, and Rowan had taught him well. He switched back to Common so the troopers could understand the conversation too. “Thank you. Do you have any news of him? Have you heard…?”
The drover frowned thoughtfully.
“Last I heard, which was this morning, he was still alive, the poor brave lad. They say he’s a little bit better than he’s been, but… well, he’s still very poorly…”
“But he’s still alive…” Fess suddenly felt like weeping. That wouldn’t do. He tried to pull himself together a bit.
“Oh, yes, he’s still alive. Or was earlier. ‘Tis still touch and go, they say.” The drover looked at Fess more closely, saw him struggle for composure and realised belatedly that this must be Rowan’s friend from the Guard who’d come here so often as a youngster. “He’s fought that bloody fever far longer than anyone thought he could, laddie, and to my mind he’ll keep on fighting it,” he said kindly, “He’s always been a bloody stubborn young bugger, has young Rowan. There’s not a lot of him, but he’s damned strong too, and he doesn’t know how to give up or when to do it.” He shook his head slightly. “But, laddie, he… um… not to distress you, but his fever’s still very bloody high and they say he gets confused with it. He… he doesn’t always know who folk are around him…”
“But… we’ve been friends for years… he’ll know me, won’t he?”
The drover shrugged.
“I hope so. But… well, he might not. Best be prepared for it.”
“Aye… thank you.”
“Tell Rhys that Morgan d’Morgan d’Mara of the Mist Fern clan sends his best wishes, and all the clans are praying for young Rowan… maybe it’ll help…” Personally, the drover thought the Gods should damned well get on with it if they were going to do anything at all. It wasn’t right for anyone to be suffering like that. He looked at Fess’s blank bewilderment and smiled. “Young Morgan, tell him. He’ll know who you mean.”
Fess smiled in sudden understanding.
“Morgan Morganson, we’d say at home, but it’d end up being Young Morgan too, even if you were a hundred.”
Morgan chuckled. He was fifty-two, and he’d be Young Mor
gan until the day he died. His grandson, Little Morgan, faced the same fate. He’d tried to tell the lad’s father to call him something else, but no, the silly bugger’d thought he knew better.
“Ha! Not so bloody different after all!” Even if you wouldn’t know an ironbark from a bull’s backside, he thought blithely.
**********
The troopers turned themselves around and trotted back to a little laneway that ran off through the trees to the left, the one marked by a tree with the distinctive blue-green leaves and deeply fissured black bark of an ironbark. There at the end was another neat double-storied timber house, this one festooned with climbing roses. A stout fence separated the well-tended garden from a big paddock that held quite a few equally well-tended horses, a couple of cows and three plump pigs. The little troop clattered to a halt outside the inevitable timber gate.
“Here we are, lads. I’ll just go inside and you can have a bit of a rest. There’s a creek there for the horses,” Fess said, desperately worried by what the drover had had to say.
“Aye, Sir. Er… are you sure this is the right place, Sir?” one of the troopers said, looking around him doubtfully. Of course he knew that Rowan was a forester, but still it seemed hard to imagine him here, in this… wilderness.
“Oh, aye… look…” Fess pointed at the animals all crowded oddly close to the house. Amongst them, but slightly separate, stood two superb stallions, a black and a dappled grey. They looked like a pair of rare orchids in a field of daisies.
“Strange how they’re all clustered around that window like that, isn’t it?” the Pathfinder said curiously.
“Not really,” Fess replied, “That’s Rowan’s room. You know that he’s a Horse Master… a Whisperer, as they call it here…”
The men nodded sagely at their Captain’s explanation of the inexplicable, and dismounted to take care of their mounts.
Rose had heard the horses and heard Mica and Soot whinny at them. She hurried to the door and opened it just as Fess was about to knock. She looked up at him, tall and handsome in his black uniform, his blonde curls tousled by the wind and his soft brown eyes worried.
“Fess! It’s so good to see you,” she cried, reaching to hug him, “You’re the new Captain!”
“Aye, for my sins. At least I won’t have that bloody Commandant to put up with. Telli’s the Commandant now.” He gave her a hug and a kiss, then asked the question he’d been dreading, “Rose, love, how is he? We met Caleb and Callan at the Scream and they told us…”
Rose’s smile faded.
“He’s still very ill, Fess. The lung fever has been… dreadful. Thorn, that’s the healer, says the fever isn’t as bad as it was, there’s a chance that he might pull through this after all and he is a bit better than he was, but… well, come and see for yourself.”
She took him into the neat little room that looked out over the paddock. Fess could see the horses and the other beasts standing there quietly. Griff had appeared from somewhere and was talking to the troopers, heading for the barn. Rowan’s father sat by the bed carefully bathing Rowan’s flushed, sweaty face. He looked exhausted but he greeted Fess with a smile.
“Fess, it’s good to see you again, just maybe not like this… come in and sit here, lad,” Rhys had noticed Fess’s weary limp and he hastily stood up and waved him to the chair he’d just vacated, then pulled another across for himself. He hesitated before speaking again. “I have to tell you though, laddie, Rowan mightn’t know you, he’s still confused sometimes. The potions and things, they make it worse, of course. The fever is a bit less, but he’s still got a lot of pain in his ribs; I suppose they can’t heal properly with all the coughing and the sheer bloody effort it takes him just to breathe…” Rhys bit his lip and stared into space miserably for a moment before continuing. The previous night hadn’t been a good one.
“And that damned wound on his shoulder wouldn’t heal. The healer opened it up and there was a … well, I don’t even know what it was really… a bit of metal, the point of a blade or something that’d hit the bone and snapped off. A halbet or something, Rowan said, but he was fairly muddled. Anyway, ‘twas very messy, but it’s finally getting better now, and his broken hand is too,” he sighed and shook his head unhappily. “He still mutters and mumbles sometimes too, when the fever’s worst but, well, it doesn’t make much sense, if you can even understand what he says. Doesn’t scream though, thank the Gods. He hasn’t at all, though he’s had plenty to scream about, poor lad. He’s too weak, I think, and ‘tis probably just too bloody painful. He’s bitten through his lip a few times though. But Fess, please don’t be upset if he… if he doesn’t know who you are,” Rhys finally stumbled to a halt.
Fess looked at his friend laying so still in the bed. A big ginger cat was snuggled against his uninjured side, purring, and a black and tan dog snored at his feet.
“We’ve tried to keep them out, but somehow they keep on getting back in. That damned cat should be out in the barn catching mice, but he can open every door in the house. He used to lurk under the bed and purr, but then he moved up there.” Rhys nodded at the cat and dog and sighed, “They’re not hurting anyone, least of all Rowan, and he seems to be calmer with them there. He’s been so ill it wouldn’t have made any difference to the outcome if they were there or not, and even now…”
Fess nodded as he slipped off his uniform jacket and sat down slowly. Rowan was far too pale apart from the hectic flush of fever on his cheeks and he looked gaunt, his ribs prominent above the bandages around his chest. His hair was clean and neatly braided and his beard was trimmed, though there wasn’t much that could be done about the patchy bit around the livid scar on his jaw. His breathing was harsh and laboured and he seemed frighteningly frail. Fess wasn’t sure if he was asleep or unconscious, but he couldn’t believe his strong, fit, healthy friend could possibly be so ill.
“Gods, Rhys, I should never have let him leave Den Siddon! I didn’t realise he was so badly hurt… he said he was all right…” Fess felt like weeping. He felt Rhys’ strong hand on his shoulder.
“And how would you have stopped him, lad? You know as well as I do what a stubborn bugger he is.” Rhys smiled sadly. “’Tis probably all that’s kept him going for so long. He just keeps on fighting somehow.”
“He’s exhausted and very weak now though, and he can barely eat. Sometimes he knows us and sometimes he… he doesn’t,” Rose said quietly.
Rowan seemed to be becoming disturbed by something. He was restless now and he was sweating and mumbling incoherently, his breathing shallower and harsher. He began to tremble, turning his head from side to side in agitation. Whether unconscious or asleep the pain of his injuries kept him from thrashing violently as he babbled something about blood and babies that they couldn’t quite make out. Fess had the sudden horrible feeling that it might be just as well they couldn’t.
“No. Gods, no! The well is full of blood,” he suddenly said softly and clearly, though he didn’t wake. “Stay back, lads, ‘tis…’tis full of… full of… no!” He shuddered violently.
Rhys reached over quickly and put a hand on Rowan’s uninjured shoulder.
“’Tis all right, Rowan,” he said, “It’s over, lad, it’s not real.”
“No, Pa! Don’t wake him! He needs to rest!”
“Hush, Rose. Hush, love. He’s not resting like this… I believe he should be woken from his nightmares.” Especially this one about wells and blood, Rhys thought. It seemed to be the most horrible of the lot and Rowan would never talk about it when he was rational. He’d simply shake his head and turn his face away. Sometimes he’d weep quietly.
“Rose, go. We’ll look after Rowan; he’ll be all right. But just go now, love.”
Fess nodded quickly. He knew more than he wanted to about nightmares too. And he’d read Rowan’s soul-chilling, blood-spattered report of Trill; the ones about the heartbreaking struggle to get his men back to Den Siddon had been almost as disturbing.
None of th
e men who’d been at Trill would say much about it, but their haunted eyes said more than enough. One poor trooper had even killed himself.
**********
Rhys shook Rowan’s shoulder gently as Rose reluctantly left the room, shutting the door after her.
“Rowan, wake up lad. You’re safe now. Wake up.”
For a long moment there was no response, but Rowan was still agitated and trembling and struggling to breathe.
“No,” he whispered hoarsely. “No! Don’t you die too, dammit! I won’t let you… no, there’s too much blood, stop bleeding… stop bleeding… don’t die too!”
Rhys tried again, a bit more strongly. He couldn’t bear to see his son so distressed.
“Wake up, Rowan lad! ‘Tis all right, you’re safe now. All the men are safe too. ‘Tis all over. Just wake up, Rowan! ‘Tis just a dream, it’s over now.”
Rowan suddenly sat bolt upright, wide-eyed and shaking, sweat pouring down his face and body. Then he gasped in pain and collapsed back against the pillows. He put his head in his good hand, panting harshly as he tried to get his breath and stop shuddering.
“Bloody Hells, not again.” he said softly. “Will it never bloody end?”
Finally he raised his head wearily and gazed blankly at Fess. His eyes were huge in his thin face, dark with pain and horror and he seemed frighteningly confused.
“Rowan, it’s me, Fess.”
“Fess?” Rowan frowned at him uncertainly. He felt himself trembling as he struggled to escape the grip of the nightmare that was so terrifyingly real to him. Fess can’t be here, he thought confusedly. I sent him home, I’m sure I did. He’s safe, surely he’s safe. How can Fess be here in… in…? Where the hell was he? He looked around in bewilderment. Where were the men, the carts, the horses?
Gods! Fess thought, appalled to see his friend in such torment. He doesn’t even know me. Rhys and Rose had both warned him, and so had the drover, but he’d truly thought… He surreptitiously wiped his eyes. He sat there miserably for a while, head bowed, and suddenly he felt a hot sweaty hand on his arm.
