Ravens, Owls and a nightingale

21. Losses & Gains

Heavy rain had fallen during the night and soaked the ground into a soft, slippery slime that squelched wetly under heavy boots. Lord Rhodan walked with a deliberate step across the farmyard, stopped in the middle of it and sighed. It was silent, there were no birds around to enliven the slightly misty morning with their twittering, and the only sounds he could hear were water dripping from the eaves of a shed, and the clanking of hooves against timbers. The horses were getting slightly restless in anticipation of their morning fodder, listening to the shuffling of grooms behind the shed.

Rhodan-Omeasch closed his eyes for a moment and breathed in the clammy morning air. Such quiet, after days of listening to the din of battle and the moans of the wounded and dying... even his iron stomach made an extra flip at the thought. So many casualties on both sides, so many of his tried and trusted men dead or crippled for the rest of their lives, so many faces that he was used to seeing by his side through thick and thin, gone for good. He frowned deeply and shook his head, trying in vain to dispel the gloom that was threatening to settle upon him.

Much of his gloominess was caused by his body, loudly grumbling about the too few hours of sleep it had got over the past days and the too many hours spent on horseback swinging a sword, steering his mount around, roaring commands to his troops, fighting, killing, maiming. He sternly told it to shut up. Weren't all of those were things he had done all his life? He was used to them and could take them in his stride. And hadn't he spent his nights in a pretty comfortable bed instead of on the ground? Hadn't he again managed to avoid serious injury, so that he only sported a few bruises and bumps here and there but no actual wounds? Really, his body had nothing too overwhelming to complain about.

A little voice from somewhere whispered that maybe age, not only the rigors of marching and fighting, had something to do with his current weariness. He swatted it away but it was unpleasantly persistent and kept coming back, no matter how he protested. He wasn't old, goddamnit! Forty-four was no age to retire inside warm chambers and stop being a man. Some of his captains were older than he was, and his own father had lived well into his sixties — well, partly out of sheer determination to see his only son reach maturity, but anyway. However, there was no denying that his injuries didn't heal as quickly as they once had and discomfort bothered him a lot more now than some ten years before. Years were creeping on him, and no matter how regularly he trained and kept himself fit, they would one day get the better of him.

Lord Rhodan combed fingers through his shaggy hair, deep in thought. He knew he'd been a lucky man throughout his life. He had succeeded in many things, enlarged his territory, made Deleon even more a force to reckon with than his father had probably dared hope, and he'd also been spared major injuries despite having fought in countless battles. But he would much rather have been in Deleon now and not here, a long way to the east, standing on the yard of a sizable farmhouse and smelling the heavy, earthy autumn air. But this time he wasn't here of his own volition. This wasn't a war he had started; he'd been given no choice in the matter.

In order to protect everything he held dear, everything he'd ever achieved in his life, his only alternative had been to lead his men out to meet yet another army in battle. Not just any army, either — Eregal had managed to rally a truly formidable number of troops under its banner, outnumbering Deleon's forces by at least one third, probably more. There had been no way out of this war, and over the past couple of weeks he had used every trick he'd ever learned, every grain of experience and knowledge in his possession, to gain advantage in a conflict against a superior enemy. Planning, scouting, sending spies. Surprise attacks followed by swift retreat. Appearing strong and confident in front of his men. Fighting harder than he had ever fought before.

And now the Lord of Deleon stood here alone, in the eerie silence of morning, as the victor. The strategies devised by him and his captains had paid off: on their march through deserted countryside their enemy had been grappling with escalating problems with procuring supplies. This had eaten into the morale of the advancing troops, and order within the ranks had been further broken down by the constant harassment of Deleon's army making efficient use of its detailed knowledge of the terrain. Now Eregal and its allies had been roundly beaten, and rumors of the dead and missing had mentioned a number of names that even Lord Rhodan could easily recognize.

He felt something akin to awe when he thought that his troops, his own troops, had beaten such an enemy, and yet the relief and satisfaction were heavily tinged with sorrow. Such an appalling loss of life and limb — what for? As far as he could see, Eregal had gained nothing but lost a lot, perhaps more than could be measured at the moment. How would this humiliating defeat alter the relations between the proud castle and its allies? Lord Rhodan could well imagine that there would be much bitterness and animosity and simmering anger. What would that lead to?

The dark warrior folded his arms on his wide chest and chewed on his lip. Eregal had surrendered, the war was over, and soon he and his trusted captains would formally meet with the surviving leaders of the decimated enemy and lay down their terms. He needed to shake free of this melancholy gloom, for it was time to start thinking in earnest about those terms. Of course Eregal's troops would have to leave the area without delay, that much was self-evident, but he wanted something more, something lasting. Not a truce but a treaty, something that would guarantee, at least tentatively, the safety of Deleon even in these outlying regions. Would it be possible to reach an agreement?

Lord Rhodan squared his shoulders and listened. No sound of an approaching rider as yet... probably the rain had forced the courier to slow down or even stop entirely for the night. If the man didn't return today, the negotiations would be delayed, and that wasn't good. Deleon's troops, including their commander, wanted to get home. The people who'd left their homes and fields needed to get back to them to get properly settled and prepared for the coming winter. And Eregal's army, in dire need of supplies, had to hit the road as well.

But it was still early in the morning, and the courier knew he was anxiously expected. He wouldn't linger along the way any more than was absolutely necessary. There was no need to worry yet.

Rhodan-Omeasch was feeling at the same time magnanimous and wary. He wanted peace with Eregal, and preferably a peace that wouldn't humiliate his enemy too badly. A defeat could hardly be honorable, but at least he as the winner could be generous. In the aftermath of the decisive battle, he had therefore sent a courier to Deleon Castle, to bear the news of the victory, and to let Lady Bialka know that she could soon return to her birth family. That would be a gesture of goodwill that anyone was sure to understand in the right way, and besides, Lord Rhodan had no illusions about her possible usefulness as a safeguard against attacks from Eregal. He knew that there were people who'd go to quite some lengths to protect their blood relations, and people who didn't hesitate to launch an attack against a place where a close relative was held captive, as long as there was enough land or riches to gain by that action. Apparently the Lord of Eregal, who still insisted on keeping the title to himself despite his old age, belonged to the latter category.

The sturdy Lord rubbed his hands together and entered his temporary headquarters, squinting in the sparse light. The house, wisely abandoned by its rightful owners, had provided both a useful landmark and more than adequate lodgings for him and his closest men. Unfortunately it had also got to serve as an infirmary: in addition to losing one of his captains, Lord Rhodan had been working with a few wounded ones, though luckily all of them were still able to do their part.

Somewhat surprisingly, the closest shave had befallen Count Daynar. Obviously quite a few soldiers in Eregal's troops had known the man a little too well, and had at one point chosen him as their main target. Some old animosity among less successful mercenaries, Lord Rhodan assumed — and such foolishness! Of course it might have proved dangerous, because it had meant a particularly heavy assault on the Count's troops, but in their wild desire to knock the living daylights out of Count Daynar the attackers had appeared almost blind to everything else, and neglected to watch their backs. An idiotic mistake in any battle, let alone when facing such competent fighters, and one for which the vengeful fools had paid dearly. The Lord snorted. Such stupid and unruly behavior; he had little patience for such people. As if getting back at a man who had perhaps sometimes snubbed them could be more important than sticking to the overall plan... supposing that there had been one, of course.

Nonetheless, an unpleasantly close shave it had been. With too many people squeezed together in too little space, fighting got difficult and dirty and the greatest skill could be undermined by sheer blind luck. Lord Rhodan didn't even have to close his eyes to see it again, as clearly as he had seen it when it had happened. The heavy sword swinging in a wide arc. The staff flying to meet the blade. The impact, Sorel's distorted face, Count Daynar slumping forward on the neck of his horse. Just a blink, really, but he had roared his lungs out with fury and pain at the loss of a valiant, valuable ally and a good friend. He also remembered cutting down a few men who had been stupid enough to try and unhorse him. Some time later, an enormous flash of relief had washed over him when he'd seen the Count appear once more by his side, sword securely in hand. The surprise and joy had been enough to let him ignore the fact that Sorel had been riding behind the Count and not on his own horse, and that under all the grime of battle Daynar's face had been pale and tight with pain.

Lord Rhodan sat on a bench by the table and accepted the bowl of porridge offered by a servant. He heard movement from the adjoining chamber and soon discerned the upright figure of the Count, followed by the shorter, slimmer Sorel whose blond hair seemed to glow its own light. The Count greeted him and then sat stiffly down, grimacing as he did so.

"Sore?" Lord Rhodan asked and got a thin smile in reply.

"As all hell," Count Daynar grunted.

His usually straight posture was now even straighter, thanks to a tight bandage that protected his midsection and prevented him from bending his back more than an inch or two in any direction. Rhodan knew what was hidden under the bandage: the entire left side of the man's back was purplish black and badly swollen. Luckily the left side, or he could hardly have as much as raised a sword after his injury, let alone swing it. But he'd been able to do both, and still with murderous efficiency, both during the rest of the ferocious battle and led his men to finally beat back the enemy, only to pass out from exhaustion when he'd slid down from his horse on the yard of their headquarters.

Sorel greeted the Lord respectfully and sat down beside his commander, placing his thickly bandaged left hand gingerly in his lap. Again, left hand. An incredibly lucky bunch they were. Rhodan was already thoroughly used to the constant presence of the blond Belter. The two were practically joined by the hip anyway, and even though Sorel was merely Count Daynar's bodyguard and lieutenant, there was no objection to his presence since he invariably behaved in a respectful and unobtrusive manner. Besides, Lord Rhodan knew that he'd be willing to tolerate even much more peculiar quirks if that would be necessary to keep the Count at hand.

"Did you go to see the guards, my Lord?" Count Daynar asked over his piece of bread, but the Lord shook his head.

"Just to the outhouse, and to listen for any signs of our courier. Nothing as yet. It's been a rainy night."

"Ahh, too bad. That's sure to slow him down some."

"Yes, and I'd very much like to have the word from Deleon before we meet Lord Eregal today," Rhodan said thoughtfully. In the corner of his eye he saw both Daynar and Sorel glancing at him quickly, and suppressed a chuckle. The Count was always quick with things, he was sure to have a hunch of what his Lord was contemplating.

"You have some special plans, my Lord," the man stated. "Anything you think you could share?"

"In fact yes. I've been playing with the idea of proposing a treaty. I'm willing to warrant that we won't pose a threat to them, if they will guarantee the same. And I'll even give them back Lady Bialka if they want — without her dowry, of course."

"For their sake I hope they'll accept, and also keep their word." Count Daynar fingered his dark goatee, which even in the current conditions was as immaculate as ever. "At the same time I fear that they won't. I've met the old Lord a couple of times, and he is proud and stubborn to the point of being unreasonable. Nor getting any better with old age."

Beside him, Sorel nodded with conviction.

"Even his sons think so, my Lord," the Belter added softly.

"His sons, eh?" Lord Rhodan's eyebrows arched. "Well well. Please refresh my memory — how many of them are there actually? Three?"

"Yes, three," Daynar confirmed. "That is, at least there were three when we first encountered them in battle. But understandably our information might be somewhat outdated."

"What do you know about them?" Rhodan inquired.

"From what I've heard, they've all been raised to be warriors and courtiers," Daynar said with a little smile. "Though not all of them necessarily in that order of importance. What might you be getting at, my Lord?"

"Oh, just thinking aloud!" The Lord granted him an evil grin. "Three adult sons, the old Lord well over sixty and yet sitting on his high horse like glued, not wanting to step down?"

"The old Lord's first wife only bore him a few daughters, but with the second one he got the heir as well," Sorel put in. "And even his eldest son is around thirty years old."

"He must be more than a little frustrated by now," Lord Rhodan mused.

"That would be Master Bandarr." The Count nodded. "The word is that he's something of a hothead, and always quarreling with his father, but the second son — damned if I can remember the name — is said to be a much more likeable person. Calm and clever. I don't really know anything about the third."

"Now that sounds more promising. Too bad, though, that it's the old man we'll have to deal with."

"He's a tough bone, my Lord," Daynar agreed and leaned his elbows on the table, then swore tightly under his breath and his heavy-lidded eyes closed for a moment. "Oh holy hell, this back... But it just might possible that there's someone among them to whose common sense we could appeal."

"That's what I'm hoping for," the Lord said. "Although there are a few very big buts. For one thing, it would have to be done very cautiously. They mustn't notice that we're trying to sow discord... and of course we can only hope that the correct people are still in full possession of their senses."

The indulged in speculation over their simple breakfast, and Lord Rhodan felt his spirits rising from the murky depths where they'd been wallowing for a few days now. The atmosphere continued to brighten as the other captains joined them one by one, and after a quick briefing of the discussion so far, got involved as well. Finally the talks came to an abrupt end towards midday, when the men gathered around the table heard the sloshing of trotting hooves and paused mid-sentence to listen.

"That must be Moran!" Captain Brendel said, and true enough, a few moments later a very muddy soldier walked in and snapped to attention at the door.

"My Lord!" He saluted a little shakily, peeled a wet gauntlet from one hand and began to dig up something from his slim bag. "I apologize for the delay, my Lord, but the road was slippery and I feared the horse would break a leg."

"Never mind, the main thing you and the horse are here in one piece!" Rhodan frowned at the two folded letters handed to him. "What's this?"

"Lady Bialka wrote them," the man explained. "My Lord, she begged you to let her stay in Deleon. She doesn't want to return to Eregal."

The letters, written with a rounded and somehow childish-looking hand, were sealed with Lady Bialka's little seal and addressed to 'My Gracious Lord Rhodan of Deleon' and 'Honored and Respected Lord Eregal' respectively and hadn't obviously suffered any obvious maltreatment in the courier's bag. Lord Rhodan eyed them speculatively, then glanced at the muddy man.

"You did well," he said. "Go and get some rest and dry clothes."

"Thank you, my Lord."

As the man stomped out once more, and the Lord's attention returned to the letters.

"Doesn't want to go back?" he echoed under his breath. "Let's see now..."

He broke the seal on the letter bearing his name, unfolded it and read, mouth tightening with each line into something that was halfway between a scowl and a smirk. Finally he looked up at the expectant faces around him.

"Listen to this: My most gracious and merciful Lord Rhodan, please be kind still to me and my children, as you have been so far, and allow us to stay in your castle of Deleon. I beg you not to force me to go back to Eregal and my family, for they will not care for me nor the children of my traitorous husband. My father will show me no mercy and he will treat me and my children badly. I am very much afraid to go back there. Please let us stay in Deleon instead. You have always been good and kind to us, even though my unfortunate husband acted in such a terrible way towards you, and not laid blame for it on us. I will do everything I can to be useful to you, and obey you in every way your Lordship requires, if only you will please let us stay in Deleon. I entreat you most humbly and respectfully to be kind to a poor woman and her children. Signed, Bialka, formerly of Eregal."

"Sounds pretty desperate," grunted the ruddy-faced Captain Aymer after a few seconds' stunned silence.

"Petrified," Count Daynar added. "I only wish we could see what's inside that other letter."

Lord Rhodan was already studying the second letter closely, then shook his head and sighed.

"Not a chance. That seal will shatter if we try to slice it open, and my esteemed father-in-law won't be overly happy if we've opened a letter addressed to him. I just hope she's picked her words a little differently for that one."

"What will you do, my Lord?"

The dark Lord took a deep breath, puffed his cheeks and inhaled slowly. "Well, this turns the situation upside down. If she so much fears going back, I'm ready to believe that she knows she's got some real reason to be afraid. I won't make her leave against her will. There's no denying she's unnecessary to me, but what else can I do?"

"But she's their own daughter and sister," Captain Brendel said incredulously. "What so terrible could they do to her?"

"Send her kids to various castles to be brought up there on a pittance, and marry her off to the first man who finds her at all attractive," Count Daynar said dryly. "Exactly as Lord Rhodan could do —"

"Well, I can't see much wrong in a woman who cares for her children!" Rhodan huffed and stood up. "She stays if she wants to."

"We all know you are a good and just man, my Lord," the Count said and calmly ignored the winces of a few other captains, who knew the reason for their leader's agitation just as well as he did. "So does Lady Bialka, who basically has nobody in the world to stand up for her. We just need to convince Lord Eregal that returning her is not necessary, and that she's staying out of her own free will."

"Pity that we can't open that letter," Lord Rhodan growled. "But that can't be helped now. Brendel, send a messenger to tell Eregal that we want to meet with them. On the riverside field, as agreed."

The big captain strode out, his limp more pronounced than ever, and after not very many moments a horse could be heard, trotting briskly out of the farmyard and onto the narrow road that ran past the house.

Some hours later a handsome small party was advancing towards the appointed field where a tent had already been erected to provide a dry and at least moderately comfortable place for the negotiations. Neither army camp would do, but this was neutral ground between the lines and thus suited for the purpose. Despite the bleak weather and ordeals of the past few days, the riders as well as their mounts put up a rather fresh appearance. Horses had been groomed and their gear polished, clothes brushed and boots rubbed clean, and the black and yellow flag of Deleon was flapping proudly in the slight wind that had driven the morning fog away. The party was followed by some two dozen mounted guards, equally smartly outfitted provided that one didn't look too closely.

At Lord Rhodan's sign the guards stopped their horses and remained at a respectful distance while he and his captains rode to meet the other party. They were already waiting near the tent, with a smaller group of guards standing some twenty steps behind them.

As the Lord approached Eregal's representatives, he frowned and glanced quickly at Count Daynar by his side.

"Where's old Eregal?" he hissed under his breath.

"Can't see him, my Lord," the Count murmured. "What is going on here?"

"Exactly what I'd like to know," Rhodan snarled. "Our guards haven't reported any suspicious movement on their side after yesterday."

They reached the waiting party, and the slim man sitting patiently on his horse in the middle of it nodded curtly.

"Lord Rhodan of Deleon," he said audibly, "I regret that our very first meeting should take place in such circumstances, and wish to introduce myself. I am Bardioll-Kardess, the Lord of Eregal Castle."

Everybody present, friend and foe, could only marvel at the way Lord Rhodan controlled his expression at this astounding piece of news. His eyebrows quirked a little and he looked the younger man slowly up and down before opening his mouth.

"The Lord?"

"Indeed, honored brother-in-law." The young Lord tilted his dark auburn head minutely. "My elder brother, the Ranea, was severely wounded the day before yesterday, and he died of his wounds late last night."

"And your father?" Lord Rhodan inquired, voice very even. The corner of Lord Bardioll's mouth twitched.

"My esteemed father has also been wounded, and is being taken back to Eregal as we speak. I regret very much having to take such action, as it means I have already breached on our promise not to move any of our troops before hearing your terms. However, I dared hope that you will graciously forgive us for looking after the welfare of an old man who's in no condition to continue leading this expedition." His horse stomped its foot and he patted its neck, then looked straight at the older warrior in front of him. "As the Lord of Eregal, I am therefore in charge of our troops now."

"I see." Rhodan-Omeasch bowed slightly. "Lord Bardioll, I hereby acknowledge you as our legitimate counterpart in these negotiations. I admit that this is something of a surprise, but —" he just couldn't help himself, "perhaps we can now take a fresh look at the future of the relations between Deleon and Eregal."

"Nothing could give me greater pleasure," Lord Bardioll replied smoothly and gestured to his disgruntled-looking retinue. "For some time already, I have been hoping for an opportunity to converse with you in the manner befitting our status."

Both parties dismounted, and when handing the reins of his horse to one of the servants who had been waiting at the tent, Lord Rhodan managed to exchange of glance with a few of his men. Their faces were stoic, and yet he could see flashes of many feelings — astonishment, hope, surprise, suspicion, glee.

Count Daynar's lips had pulled into a satisfied smirk, and Lord Rhodan barely managed to suppress his own grin before turning once more to face the young Lord of Eregal. Could it be possible, he thought warily, that something more lasting could be achieved after all?