Ravens, Owls and a nightingale

18. News & Fears

Lord Rhodan usually didn't like to wallow in bed in the mornings, and more often than not he'd have breakfast with Count Daynar, another early bird. The other captains preferred to sleep long when they could, as did the Lord's children, and thus also the next morning found the Lord and Count once more in their customary seats in the day room, accompanied by the ever-present Sorel.

After a mutual 'good morning' the men concentrated on munching the bread and porridge and washing them down with the chatelaine's incomparable day-ale. Especially Count Daynar downed the dark brown, sweetish drink greedily. He was thirsty, and nothing quenched thirst quite like that ale with its gently tingling taste. He also had another reason to like the stuff: unlike the far more potent brews served at the main meals, the day-ale was very mild and a man simply couldn't drink enough of it to muddle his brain. This was something the Count appreciated. He disliked drunkenness in general — drunken men were unreliable and hard to control, prone to make stupid mistakes, and took a long time to recover from the ill effects — and also knew that in his own case, a hangover usually meant a full day of truly splitting headache. That was neither enjoyable nor acceptable, and thus he had established a reputation as a man with steely self-control. Such a reputation suited him just fine.

The three men enjoyed their morning meal in companionable silence, until steps in the corridor made them raise their heads and fix questioning eyes at the door. They didn't expect complete silence, of course not, but this particular sound was still something unusual, all things considered. It was made by the thick boots of a heavy man who shuffled slightly with one foot and was striding with surprising briskness for the time of day. Something unusual must have happened to make that particular man leave his bed and mistress at this hour.

"Brendel," Lord Rhodan said sharply almost before the man appeared at the door, "what's the matter?"

"My Lord!" Captain Brendel, fully clothed and even looking relatively alert, nodded a greeting to Count Daynar as well. "The guards who were on duty last night have just informed me that Karos-Daleot has returned."

"Returned?" The Lord's eyes narrowed. "When? Where is he? Why haven't I been told?"

"I only heard it myself, my Lord," Brendel replied. "They said it was well after midnight but before the break of dawn. He'd looked ill and exhausted, and had headed straight to the Ghost Tower."

"Get me the Wizard!"

"I already sent for him, my Lord. As soon as I got the word."

Captain Brendel sat down at his usual place and yawned widely while a maid hastened to pour him some ale. Lord Rhodan glanced sternly at Daynar on his other side.

"And what do you make out of this, sir Count?"

"That something is badly wrong, my Lord." Daynar met the glare calmly, refusing to be put off by cool tone. "Why else would he have gone to the Wizard? Unless, of course, he saw light there and decided that he didn't want to wake others at that hour since he had nothing too urgent to tell. I have no doubt that we'll soon hear what's happened."

The Lord grumbled something under his breath and resigned himself to waiting.

The tense silence stretched on, punctuated only by the sounds of eating and the thud of tankards being lowered on the table, and Lord Rhodan's scowl deepened by the minute. At last the men heard a less familiar step approaching. It sounded heavy and weary under the rustle of thick cloth, and when the Wizard stepped to the door, Daynar heard Sorel gasp sharply. In truth, he had to bite back an exclamation as well.

The Wizard looked very old and very tired, his face gray and eyes bloodshot over a scraggly beard. He walked slowly closer to the waiting men, hands pushed into the sleeves of the long robe, and bowed his head just enough to appear respectful.

"You asked to see me, my Lord," he said in a colorless voice.

"Indeed, Wizard!" Lord Rhodan sounded much less thunderous than he had obviously intended mere moments earlier. "I was told that you might perhaps have some news for me."

"My Lord, I do have a message for you," the older man said with slight reproach and pulled a folded parchment from his sleeve. "I was coming to bring this to you this morning and apologize for the delay. I have been busy."

He placed the parchment on the table, then backed away and was about to turn around with another bow when the Lord interrupted him.

"Not so fast, Wizard!" Lord Rhodan looked at the stained parchment, then back at the stooped man. "Karos-Daleot brought this to you last night, didn't he? Why not to me? And where is he?"

"In the Ghost Tower, my Lord, where else?" The Wizard sure was being tight-lipped today... "And with your kind leave I will return there now."

"What's the matter with him?" Count Daynar put in swiftly, knowing that Sorel — who was breathing quickly at his elbow — would soon be upset enough to speak up in the Lord's presence. Daynar could get away with it, no problem, Sorel not quite so easily. "Is he ill?"

"Wounded, sir Count. Wounded a few days ago, and crawling in who knows what mires afterwards. It has poisoned his blood."

The Wizard turned away and left the room, not waiting for permission from his master and receiving no reproach for it, either. Count Daynar glanced at the Lord beside him. The dark man was surprisingly pale and just sat there, staring in a daze at the empty doorway, clutching the parchment. Daynar bent closer.

"The message, my Lord... what does it say?"

Rhodan-Omeasch shoved it into the Count's hand and shook his head. "Read it for me," he ordered hoarsely, trembling fingers combing through his thick hair.

Daynar unfolded the large sheet carefully and his shapely eyebrows climbed several inches up. It had obviously been kept tightly folded, using one exposed section at a time, and was scribbled almost full with a strong, clear, somewhat inexperienced hand. Some notes had been written in fairly good conditions, for they ran in straight, orderly lines and were easily legible. Some others showed that either poor lighting or other adversity had been at work, making the text look more haphazard. In a few occasions the notes were limited to some names and keywords. Each entry was dated, and after turning the parchment around a few times, the Count managed to ascertain that he was indeed looking at the earliest one. He began to read.

The tale of the young man's expedition started to take shape. He had been charting the more outlying regions, looking at possible approach routes, warning villages and more solitary farms about the threat. It seemed that Karos had taken especially the warning bit seriously, which was perfectly in keeping with the strategies discussed at the Lord's table — well, Daynar had done his best to prime the youth for the journey, and Karos had understood the situation perfectly.

Harvest time was just about over and the autumn works going on. Every storeroom, barn, shed and cellar was squeaking at the seams with the abundance of food and fodder stuffed into them in preparation for the coming winter. Cattle and pigs were busy gorging themselves fat on the remaining greenery before the autumn slaughter. This was exactly what the attackers were counting on. Procuring supplies along the route would be just too easy; just reach out your hand and take what you need!

It was also exactly the part of the plan that Deleon was going to sabotage first. One of Karos' primary tasks had therefore been to warn the people to empty their stores, pack everything together and get their precious provisions and themselves closer to Deleon Castle — even inside it, if necessary. They should leave nothing behind if they could avoid it, nothing to support a marching army that was getting further and further away from its supplies with every step. That first warning had clearly been given, and even heeded, if the notes were anything to go by.

A few entries later the Count suddenly tripped on words and his eyes went wide. Karos had actually seen the approaching enemy? The date and place were clear enough, the wording unequivocal. From then on his task had taken a more frantic turn. The young man had dashed back, told the villagers to get the hell away while they still could, and then —

Count Daynar swallowed hard. Then the crazy boy had actually turned around again, sidled closer to the invaders, and... and managed to sneak into their camp to spy some more. A detailed account of a conversation followed, complete with a hastily drawn map of sorts. This must have been when he'd got the wound, and yet he'd been able to escape with his precious information.

The first couple of entries after this point were still rather coherent — Karos had been riding like a madman back to the castle, how many horses had he exhausted to keep up such a speed? — but soon the handwriting deteriorated until barely understandable. Fever was taking hold, and the young man had pushed on, only the thought of getting the information to Deleon keeping him upright. He would've had a shorter way to the guard posts, but hadn't apparently been able to think straight enough, which was excusable, or perhaps he had known that he needed the Wizard. And he had made it, reached his home... surely not only to die here?

Daynar read the last few words; they mentioned yet another village where the warning had been given. Then he fell silent.

"That I should have doubted him," the Lord mumbled. "Brendel, you heard all that?"

"Yes, my Lord!" The captain had been transfixed, listening closely to every word, and now jumped on his feet. "I'll go immediately to alert the others. We must get ready."

Count Daynar handed the parchment back to his master and rose from his chair. "I'll join Captain Brendel," he stated. "I trust we'll soon talk this message over with them."

"Yes, come here when they are awake."

The Count left the room, Sorel at his heel as usual. He felt nauseous.

A few hours later a knock at the door woke the Wizard up from a slumber of sorts, and his head jerked up. He blinked around, pushed himself up from the chair that he'd dragged next to the bed, and squinted anxiously at the silent form on the bed. When he was satisfied that the chest was indeed still moving he went to open the door.

"My Lord?"

"May I come in?"

"Of course."

The thick leather in Lord Rhodan's clothes creaked a bit, he looked far too large to be standing here, in this room, and he stopped for a moment, as if realizing it himself. Then he took a couple of hesitant steps towards the bed and looked down at the young man lying on it. The Wizard followed him.

The Lord stared at the face. It was broad and angular, somehow very young — and yet frighteningly old. The skin was waxy gray, deep dark shadows showed under closed eyes. The strong chin and nose and high cheekbones only exaggerated how sunken in the cheeks and eyes were. As if they'd needed exaggerating. Karos looked like a dead thing, or rather, his face did, for that was all that could be seen above the thick blanket pulled up to his chin.

"Where's the wound?" The Lord's voice was quiet and throaty.

"In the chest."

Lord Rhodan nodded heavily. "Will he live?"

The Wizard exhaled slowly. "His blood is full of poison, my Lord, but he's strong and I am doing everything I can. Pray to the gods and ask for their kindness."

The man nodded again, reached out a broad, callused hand and pushed aside a long, matted curl that stuck limply to the sweaty skin that was hot and cold at the same time. His hand ghosted just above the face for a moment, not quite touching it, then retreated. Lord Rhodan walked to the door and turned around once more.

"Has he been conscious?"

"On and off, my Lord. The journey has wearied him."

"Take good care of him, Wizard. Whatever you need, let me know, and you'll have it. And... tell my son to get better."

The door had barely squeaked closed after him when the Wizard heard some commotion from the staircase, then another knock. It appeared that his solitary chamber up in the formidably scary Ghost Tower had suddenly become a place to attract quite a few visitors.

"Yes?"

"May we come in?"

A very blond head emerged, soon followed by the rest of the older minstrel. The younger one slunk in after his friend, with an even more worried and reverential look on his face.

"We are sorry to intrude like this, honored Wizard, but we heard that Karos-Daleot is here and in pretty bad shape."

"You are welcome, minstrels Mioll and Schean — yes, of course I know you, wouldn't I have heard?" The Wizard gestured for them to come forth from the door, observing in passing that the older one was clearly the more confident of the two. Apparently the stories that Schean had imbibed from the servants, about the supposed horrors of the tower and the dreadful abilities of its inhabitant if crossed in any way, had had some effect on him.

Mioll looked in interest around the room and at the older man standing a few step from them, breathed in the warm air, then his eyes met the bed.

"Oh..." He went quietly closer. "Oh damn. What exactly is wrong with him?"

"A wound in his chest. It had gone putrid, and not in a good way."

Karos' pale lips moved and the Wizard hurried to moisten them while the minstrels looked gravely on.

"I'm sure you know everything there is to know about healing," Mioll said softly, "so I hope you'll forgive us, but — is there anything we could do to help?"

"Not at the moment," the Wizard said with a tired smile. "But thank you anyway. I'll be sure to bear your offer in mind. The many skills of minstrels are known to me, and many tricks said to come from your people are among the ones that I hold in the highest esteem. There is no need to apologize if you offer your help."

This seemed to encourage even Schean, who relaxed minutely but visibly without turning his anxious gaze from the silent Karos.

"What have you done?" Mioll inquired, glanced quickly at the man, and added: "I'm just curious, you know."

"Cleaned the wound and leeched it, and of course bled him to get the fever down a little. Right now we can only wait and hope. Can't bleed him again, not so soon, or he'll get too weak."

"Was the wound very big?" Schean got his mouth open at last.

"Not big, but rather nasty anyway. In fact you could bring me more honey later today. I still have some, but I'll be needing lots more."

"Oh yes, we'll do that!" Mioll nodded eagerly. "Have you got enough clay?"

"No shortage of that," the Wizard said. He carefully pulled down the blanket and showed the thick, clay-packed poultice that covered all of the man's midsection. Both minstrels bowed down to inspect it more closely and Mioll nodded.

"Seems to be doing a good job, drawing the poison out," he observed.

They all looked at the unconscious Karos in silence, then Schean's hand hovered closer and touched his shoulder.

"Don't die, please," the younger minstrel whispered. "Ranea and the girls will be heartbroken if you do..."

"You look tired, Wizard," Mioll observed. "If you want to lie down and sleep for some time, we can stay here and look after him. We promise to wake you up if he stirs, and we also promise not to take any sneak peeks into your secrets in the meantime."

The Wizard managed a small smile. "That sounds like a good and generous offer," he said. "I was in fact just about to go to bed when he came last night, and I haven't slept a wink since."

He gathered in his arms an extra blanket that had been folded at the foot of the bed, and spread it on the wall bench. After stretching down on it he closed his eyes, and not very many moments later the two minstrels heard a quiet snoring. He was solidly asleep.

Mioll gingerly sat on the edge of the chair and let his shoulders sag, while Schean curled on the floor beside the bed and pulled his knees against his chest, wrapping both arms around them.

"He doesn't look too good," Mioll admitted grudgingly. Schean peered at the pale face, tears glistening in his eyes.

"He's so... wan," he whispered. "I've never seen anyone that ill who wouldn't have died."

"I have." Mioll did his best to sound reassuring. "And it's good that he's so peaceful now, not delirious or anything. He needs the rest."

"I suppose you're right." Schean propped his narrow chin on his knees and looked solemnly up at his more experienced companion.

"Don't fret, little brother!" Mioll said and squeezed the other minstrel's shoulder. "If anyone can save him, it's the Wizard. And we'll do everything we can to help him. Right?"

"Right," Schean echoed, sounding far more confident than he felt.