Red Rowan: Book 2: All Gone, the Gods Read online

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  It was quite a while before the troll could bring himself to speak of it. He sat with the others by their campfire, after a supper of roasted rabbit with baked tubers and wild carrots, followed by freshly picked rainfruit. The troll had eaten very little, though there was plenty for all. Rabbits abounded in the valley and Cris had found he was almost as good at catching rabbits as he was at catching rats. Rowan had run up the tall rainfruit trees as he had as a lad and tossed the huge orange-red fruit down to Cris as he waited below, and then he’d cooked the rabbits while Rose carefully cleaned the troll’s burns and applied a cooling salve.

  The troll drank the willowbark tea she made for him, but he wouldn’t let her tear a shirt into bandages, saying the travellers would need all of their warm clothing when they got further into the mountains.

  Finally the troll sighed a huge sigh and said, “I thank thee, my friends, for thy kindness and thy patience. I know thou must be wondering what has happened here. It is not a happy tale that I must tell thee, though for a long time I was happy here.”

  He looked around him, sighed sadly again, and continued. “My name,” he said, “Is Moss Underbridge. I am of course a Bridge troll, as thou canst see,” indicating the beautifully wrought silver torc around his great neck, “And I have lived here in my little hut under Amarga’s Bridge for many long seasons. That is poor Amarga there,” he indicated the headless statue behind him, “I know little more of him than his name, though I believe he must have been a mighty warrior to have had his image set here to guard the Bridge.” He shook his shaggy head slowly.

  “Well, as I say, many years have I been here, helping Amarga to guard the Bridge and seeing that it is kept in good repair. All Bridge trolls do this of course, and it matters not if the Bridge is to be used by others or not. My Bridge was once a very important Bridge, being as it is on the Road of the Gods, and its guardian troll must have been very busy in those years. But time passes, and the Gods have become distant and uncaring, and the people the same, and now the Road is little more than a track for the most part, seldom travelled at all.”

  The troll paused for a moment. The others were fascinated, but they didn’t want to interrupt the flow of his tale. Any questions they had could wait a little longer and now that he’d begun, it was likely that Moss would satisfy their curiosity in due course. He sat there thinking for a few minutes before continuing.

  “It is a good valley, this valley. There is always plenty to eat, the trees are beautiful, and in the spring and summer the ground is covered with wildflowers...” he blinked rapidly as he remembered the devastation that surrounded them. “Of course thou must find it difficult to imagine it now, but usually the trees are full of birds and little creatures that scamper up and down the trunks, and there are deer and tiny wild onagers that come to drink by the river... and the river,” he added fondly, “Is a fine river that runs deep and swift in the hottest summer, and the water is always sweet and cold, and there are fish... I’m sorry, thou dost not want to hear all this. It is just so difficult to speak of the other...” Moss sniffled softly and wiped his eyes. “But mayhap it will make me feel better to do so,” he added, raising his head a little.

  “For some time now, I have been wondering what is happening in the world outside my valley. Of course I could not leave my Bridge for long and so I could not really find out anything; but still, I wondered... Sometimes there would be strange lights in the sky, beautiful shifting curtains of colour that I have never seen before. Wonderful, they were, and they seemed harmless. I am not so sure now... And the birds have been restless, some flying away at the wrong time and in the wrong direction for their great journeys; the gliding possums have borne few young the last few seasons and those few have been weak and sickly; yet the rabbits breed as rabbits always have...” he smiled a little, his sad ugly face lighting up for a moment.

  “Sometimes a tree will blossom red or blue, where it has always been white before, and sometimes only one side of the tree will bear fruit, or every third one will be strangely formed... I did not understand it, and truly, I still do not...” he shrugged his massive shoulders.

  “I thought about these things, and wished for someone to discuss them with,” he smiled shyly at his new friends, “But of course the little onagers knew no more than I, and poor Amarga even less... and then... then... two nights ago now...” Moss faltered, but managed to continue on, “Two nights ago, as I say, there was a terrible storm - of course thou must know of this - but the rain was so heavy I could not see across the river, and the thunder shook the ground and the lightning lit up the sky... I left the shelter of my hut and the Bridge, for the river can rise very swiftly and I did not want to be swept away... I wish now that I had stayed there...”

  He wept softly for a little while. Rose moved closer to him and put her arms around him as best she could without hurting his burned back. The others wished there was some way they could ease his sorrow, but there was little they could do.

  “None of thee will have any dry shirts left soon,” Moss mumbled unhappily, “I do not know what thou must be thinking.”

  “All we’re thinking is what a terrible thing this is that’s happened to you,” Rose said to him, “and how helpless we are to help you.”

  “No, thou hast helped,” Moss said, sitting a little straighter, “Thou hast... and I want to tell thee... I had left the shelter of my Bridge as I said, and I thought to wait in the centre of the glade here until the storm had ceased. I do not mind being wet, just washed away... I was just near Amarga when there was a great light and heat behind me, and a strange shrieking whistle, and a huge explosion... and I was knocked flat to the ground, and the ground shook, and Amarga’s head fell beside mine. There was... there was a horrible sound of stones crashing and tumbling into the river... and heat, such heat... I did not dare to look up for a long time, but when I did... when I did... my beautiful Bridge was as thou seest it now...” the poor troll was trembling, and he hung his head and wept again.

  **********

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

  They couldn’t leave the troll in such a state, and so it was that they stayed by the Catspaw River for a time. Nobody wanted to remain near the ruined bridge, for the devastation weighed on their souls, but Moss showed them a fine site a little upriver.

  Here the river formed a deep pool before plunging down a steep series of rapids, and there was a small sandy beach with tumbled boulders at one end. There were many trees forming a semicircle around a wide swathe of lush grass - rainfruit trees and wild apples and pears with fruit that was plump and ripe, and there were drizzleberries and edible tubers and herbs, and in one corner was a great patch of soapwort, which pleased Rose as much as the rich grass pleased the horses.

  The fish in this part of the river were particularly fat and lazy, according to Moss, and the big blue landlobsters that lived among the rocks at the river’s edge were delicious - though they were armed with huge pincer-like claws they wouldn’t hesitate to use if threatened.

  The first day after their meeting, the troll returned to his bridge and spent most of the day there. The others respected his need for solitude and busied themselves with the domestic chores of laundry and bathing and caring for the horses, and hunting and gathering fruit and herbs. A little before sundown, Moss returned to the campsite carrying several fine silver fish wrapped in leaves. He smiled shyly at them.

  “I have done a lot of sitting and thinking today,” he said, “And I confess, some weeping too... but I did find time to catch these for our supper.”

  Cris had been trying to catch some fish too, but to his disgust those in the pool had turned out not to be quite as lazy and easy to catch as he’d hoped... or maybe, as Rowan and Rose had helpfully suggested, they simply required a different technique to the rats and rabbits. The huge blue armour-plated landlobsters – more than half as long as Cris’s arm and eight-legged, with beady black eyes, long waving antennae
and fearsome claws - had avoided all his attempts to capture them too. In fact they’d managed to catch Cris himself twice.

  The fish was as good as Moss had promised, and they were sitting lazily around the fire later when he asked to hear some of their travellers’ tales.

  “Thou hast listened to my story, unhappy as it was, and I thank thee for it,” he said, “But tonight I think we should have something more cheerful to think about; surely thou hast seen many wonderful sights in thy journey...”

  “Rose or Rowan are the ones to tell you, not me,” said Cris hastily, “I know of little more than Gnash, but they’ve seen much more than that.”

  The twins glanced at each other for a moment. Rowan smiled at his sister and with a grand flourish of one hand and a cheeky wink, he indicated that she should have the honour. Rose laughed at his shamelessness, but nodded and turned to the others.

  “It seems that it is my turn to tell the tale tonight,” she said with a grin, “And it’s true, we have seen many things, some of them wonderful, some puzzling, and some... well, some that we’d rather not have seen, really. We should probably talk of those another time, but tonight...” she frowned in thought. She liked storytelling and was good at it, her soft lilting voice perfectly suited to the task.

  “Maybe... maybe I will tell you of the Whispering Desert,” she said thoughtfully, and then she began the story.

  **********

  “Far to the east and south of Gnash is a place they called the Desert of the Whispering Sands, some called it simply the Whispering Desert... it’s an immense area, hundreds of square miles of... of nothing. Nothing could grow there, not the hardiest of thorn trees or the toughest of grasses... and there were no little creatures either - no snakes or lizards or ants or spiders or water-storing toads... a few dried bones, yes, but so dry they’d crumble at a touch... there was no way of knowing how ancient they were.”

  “There are high cliffs all around it, it’s in a sort of deep depression in the earth... it’s like looking down on a huge patchwork quilt, for the sands are many coloured... in some parts the sand is as fine and white as the finest sugar; some parts are golden-brown, others blue-grey or greenish bronze, or red, or yellow, or violet, and some parts have sand of the darkest ebony. They’re beautiful, the coloured sands, but... it was a sterile place... burning hot in the daytime and freezing cold at night, and so dry...it never rained there... It hadn’t rained in living memory. There were only the sands of many colours, and the wind...”

  “The wind blew unfettered over the desert and it made the sands whisper as it blew them around from place to place. Sometimes it sounded like a great ocean murmuring to itself, and sometimes it would sound like the screaming of lost souls... and always there was the sound of the sand, whispering or singing or crying to itself as it moved at the whim of the wind...” Rose paused for a moment.

  “There’s a tiny village perched high on the cliffs on one edge of the desert,” she continued, “It’s called Blessed, because there’s a spring there which bubbles up from the ground, pure and sweet and clear... and one day every child in Blessed ran into his home screaming in terror... they couldn’t say what had frightened them all so, but... it was something in the Desert of Whispering Sands...”

  “The villagers went to see what it was; they knew there were no animals there, no danger of that kind, but they armed themselves anyway, and they set off to climb down the cliff to the desert below...” she hesitated. “... But they never got there...”

  “I thought this was going to be a pleasant story,” Cris complained with a shiver. He wasn’t sure that mysterious goings on in a desert, with people disappearing off the sides of cliffs, could really be classed as a ‘pleasant story’.

  “Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?” Rose said with a rather wicked smile, “I did indeed say that...”

  “Stop teasing them, Rose!” Rowan said, waggling a stern finger at her.

  She pulled a face at him, then grinned and continued, “They didn’t get there because when they looked out over the desert... great sheets of rain were falling, it was so heavy that they could see only a little way... most of them had never seen rain; they’d heard about it of course, as a curiosity, but it was something their parents and grandparents had never seen in those parts either. A few villagers who’d come from other places knew what it was... but the village children took a lot of convincing that it’d only been water falling on them from the sky. Only water! They’d never dreamed of such a thing...”

  “When Rowan and I rode past there, the Whispering Desert whispered still... but it was the sound of the wind in the grasses and bushes and little trees that have sprung up, because the desert is a desert no more... it rains there every ten days or so, without fail. Where there is white sand, every plant blooms white; where the sand is golden, the flowers are golden; where red, there are only red flowers... each colour of sand has flowers of that colour and no other... except the black sand, and it has flowers growing there of every colour you have ever imagined...”

  “And there are little beasties that live there now... bees, butterflies and shaggy moths, ants and huge shiny beetles; tiny skinks and frilled lizards and sand monitors; little black and orange banded snakes and great hooded wobblers... and mice, and sand moles... and birds... so many creatures now where there were none...”

  “How wonderful...” Moss sighed softly, “How wonderful...”

  **********

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

  The following day, Moss watched in fascination as Rowan and Cris did their daily exercises. Cris had improved a lot in the time he’d been travelling with the twins, and he’d found he enjoyed the activity. Rowan had been doing some sort of training or exercise for as long as he could remember; even as lads he and Glyn had been active, always challenging each other in races and climbing trees and always on the go, and now he couldn’t imagine starting his day by simply doing nothing. He’d been pleased that Cris wanted to join him and was happy to help his friend as much as he could. Though it was never said, they both realised that Cris would never have Rowan’s endless stamina; neither of them worried when Cris stopped to catch his breath and Rowan moved on to his sabre drills.

  Rowan flowed across the grass, swift and light-footed as always, totally absorbed in the maintenance of his skills. Cris never tired of watching the graceful, deadly dance. Moss gaped at Rowan’s scars and was fascinated by his tattoos, but he was simply awestruck by his skill with the sabre. Trolls weren’t great ones for swordplay, they preferred heavier weapons like axes and maces on the very rare occasions they were necessary, but that didn’t lessen Moss’s appreciation.

  “It is like a dance,” Moss said wonderingly, astonished by Rowan’s elegance, speed and surefootedness and the fact he could wield the sabre equally well with either hand.

  “Rowan says you can’t be a good swordsman unless you’re a good dancer too, but he says it doesn’t work the other way,” Cris laughed.

  As Rowan moved effortlessly past them again, Moss’s eyes widened even further.

  “Cris,” he said unbelievingly, “That sabre of Rowan’s… it is a g’Hakken blade, is it not?”

  “Yes, Moss. It is. But you’d have to ask him about it. I don’t think he likes to talk about it much.”

  “But why not? It is a rare honour to bear such a blade.”

  Cris nodded.

  “I don’t think Rowan cares too much for…” he hesitated, “I was going to say ‘honour’, but truly, he’s the most honourable man I’ve ever known. Perhaps I should have said he doesn’t care for the sort of ‘honours’ that are associated with ‘glory’…”

  Moss thought about it and nodded in his turn.

  “It is true, they are not the same thing at all. I will ask him… the worst thing that can happen is that he will not speak of it, and my curiosity will go unsatisfied,” Moss decided.

  Cris smiled to himself. He could blister your ears for you too, Moss, if
the mood took him, he thought cheerfully.

  Moss knelt beside Rowan at the river’s edge as he washed the light sheen of sweat from his body. Cris was a little further along, but still within earshot.

  “Rowan, thou dost not have to answer this, if thou wouldst prefer not to… but I admit that I am curious…”

  Rowan looked up at the troll, perplexed.

  “You can ask me anything you like, Moss. I’ll try to answer it if I can. I’m pretty much unoffendable.” He smiled at his new friend.

  “All right then.” Moss hesitated for a moment. “Rowan, how is it that thou bearest a g’Hakken blade?”

  Ah. Rowan hadn’t expected that. He was still considering what he should say as the troll continued carefully.

  “I have seen one before… we trolls have one that a great champion of ours carried many generations ago. It is used in some of our rites and ceremonies. It is a greatsword of course, not a sabre as thine is, but it is a great treasure. They are unmistakable.”

  Rowan sighed.

  “Aye, they are. I won it, Moss. The sabre and the knives both.”

  “Thou hast knives too?” The troll was awestruck.

  “Aye.” One of them appeared in his hand and he balanced it absently on one finger as he’d done so long ago in Gnash. The troll stared at the lovely thing in wonder. “’Tis a long story, Moss.”

  “I have plenty of time if thou wouldst like to speak of it. But I do not want to pry into your private business.”

  “There’s no secret to it… No, don’t go, Cris. There’s nothing I’ll be saying that you shouldn’t hear too, if you want to.” He thought for a moment before continuing. “I joined the Guard when I was quite young, too young some thought, but… well, anyway, after a time I became good with a blade. With any weapon really, to be truthful. But especially a blade. And my Captain and Sword Master decided to enter me in a few Tournaments and Trials and things. I won some of them and… and found myself in the Champions’ Trophy. I was far too young and inexperienced, but I was fast and fit and fearless too, and I suppose I just wanted to prove the doubters wrong. There were plenty who said I shouldn’t have been there. And somehow I won it. I truly don’t know who was more surprised, the organisers or the judges, or the arrogant bugger I beat in the final, or me.”