Stephan had observed the battle from a position of relative safety, deep behind the archer's lines. From here he had had a commanding view of the entire spectacle playing out its gruesome course below him. The old man's dark eyes had watched without comment, his voluminous, heavy blue robe fluttering wildly in the strong wind, barely keeping out the cold. Surrounded by many of his curious citizens, though his wife Anna was not among them. Bennett's thin lad Nathan huddled a few feet in front of him, knees drawn up under his chin, shivering, ever pulling his oversized and threadbare navy shirt tighter around his narrow, bony shoulders. His bright haunted, green eyes never leaving the spectacle of the battle below.
Stephan was awed at the cunning and brazen attack, hardly daring to believe his eyes when Bennett's warriors erupted from their cover making their charge. The majority of the mercenaries wearing little more than a weapons belt, trousers, and boots, bearing their assortment of sharp-edged weapons, looking more like a pack of savages than an organized fighting force. Yet they challenged and harried the remaining knights, oblivious to their own peril, fighting viciously, employing every low and dishonorable means at their disposal to aid in their victory.
The battle had raged for the best part of two hours, the elderly man caught in its bloody thrall, no longer noticing the biting wind. In the closing stages, it was apparent to him that he had won the day, however, Stephan failed to feel any sense of elation. This bloody encounter only served to remind him of the stupidity of war and its waste. Wishing instead that the sacrificed, noble beasts could pull his plow to till the soil and the fallen soldiers could live in a world without conflict, knowing the warmth and love of a family and a home. Tears brimming in the kindly man's eyes he turned away, wishing to see no more. The burden of lives senselessly lost weighed heavily on his bowed shoulders.
*****
Bennett made his way back toward his triumphant force. Weary and sore, his back was red raw, and weeping, and his left arm beginning to seriously ache. Still pressing the wound to his throat to stem the steady flow of blood. Though he was careful not to let the others know of his pain or near exhaustion.
Already his rabble of dirty, unkempt men were gainfully engaged in looting the corpses, showing little respect or mercy for the injured left behind by their fleeing companions. His orders had been clear, take no prisoners and show no mercy. Either side would have done the same. He spied the heavily tattooed Gareth, casually resting the head of his large axe on his brawny shoulder, gore still dripping from its notched blade. The middle-aged, scarred warrior absently ran his stubby, filthy fingers through his close-cropped dark brown hair, taking in the sights.
Aran was nearby also, constantly pushing his golden mane of unbound hair from his face. Diligently working on stripping a corpse, his once white shirt soaked in crimson, hanging in shreds off his broad back. His razor-sharp dagger making short work of relieving the man's lifeless fingers of his many stubborn gold and ruby rings.
Their leader passed them by, not caring to deprive his warriors of their trinkets, they had fought well this day against a difficult foe and were deserving of the hard-earned rewards. Bennett knew anyhow he would still have first claim on anything amongst the spoils that took his fancy, but today the fact that they had won the battle was enough for him.
Bennett found Sven in the center of the carnage, stripped to the waist, his bear-like physique, and long unruly yellow hair splattered in blood and gore as he was, sporting many superficial wounds. Looking like some berserker Norse warrior of old. His trusted henchman broke into a wicked smile as he spied his leader, a vision monstrous and forbidding, shaven-headed, bare-chested, his heavy black leather trousers slick with blood. Looking somewhat damaged but still very much alive, meandering his way toward him through the tangle of corpses and tons of dislodged stone.
"Where is he?" Bennett rasped, gazing on the gruesome heap of intertwined dead men and horses, piled high and ranged all around him, his eyes feverishly searching the dead for Lothar amongst them.
Sven's smile vanished in an instant, telling Bennett all he needed to know, and he took the news badly indeed.
"He escaped, though he was badly wounded, and fled back home. Five of them got away."
Sven offered apologetically, shrugging his great shoulders in an admission of failure. Tensing as he noted Bennett's good fist clench, and the set of the giant body grow menacing, thinking at that moment his leader would strike him for his incompetence.
Bennett sighed, the tension at once leaving his massive frame, unclenching his tightly balled fist. Though still furious with himself for his stupid oversight. Ruing his decision to be so miserly with his dwindling ammunition. Wishing in hindsight he had set some men with rifles to take out any escapees, and the Wolf Lord's head would now rightly be his. Still, he had no one to blame but himself, admitting only privately that he had seriously erred in his arrogant judgment of his foe, and this had cost him dearly.
*****
No matter how many times Renard had witnessed the aftermath of Bennett's many raids and battles, he could never get used to or had any desire to participate in the unsavory spectacle of the marauding warriors stripping the fallen of their worldly possessions. The sight never failed to sicken him and he turned away in disgust, noting that his father's men shared the same reaction as he ordered them to move out and return home.
The tall, lean man lingered on the windy cliff top for some time alone, not wishing to participate in the goings on below, shaken at having missed his opportunity to eliminate Bennett as a threat that day. Wondering just what he would have to resort to now? Time was running out, his sister needed to be found and rescued, and still, this was not settled.
He felt pangs of fear also over his failed attempt on Bennett's life, would the evil-tempered man see Renard's action for what it was, or readily accept it as a misjudgment under very difficult conditions? Renard hoped dearly that Bennett would decide on the latter, and he would still have the opportunity to go into damage control. He must meet with his father as soon as possible, after today suspicious eyes would follow his every move of that he was certain, how long could he keep the pretense up?
Renard gathered up his few remaining arrows, slinging his longbow over his shoulder, then pausing for a moment to loosen the hard leather bracers that were beginning to chafe at his wrists. That done he broke into a measured trot, dreading heading back home and the consequences that possibly awaited him there.
*****
The fire blazed hot and bright that night creating long shadows in Stephan's high-walled courtyard. Bennett's men despite their fatigue and injuries celebrated their conquest in fine style. They were greeted as heroes on their return at dusk by the settlement's grateful occupants who turned out in droves to line the streets. Some amongst them bearing gifts in a show of their gratitude to these fearsome men, still others showering them in rose petals that formed a fragrant carpet, crushed under their iron-shod boots.
Stephan had provided the returning mercenary horde with the services of his best healers, a fine feast, and copious quantities of alcohol, which the men consumed as though there would be no tomorrow. The majority of the men were already very drunk, and few felt the chill wind, the sting of their hurts, or mourned the loss of two of their companions.
Even the usually careful Bennett had drunk his fill this night, using the wine to numb his pains. Submitting now to Nathan's careful touch, the boy set about cleansing away the filth of the battlefield and bandaging Bennett's wounds. The big man leaned forward as Nathan's small deft fingers prodded and probed, digging out the dirt, and splinters of stone embedded in his huge muscled back. The sizable graze would hurt like hell tomorrow, and he would not be able to lie on his back for many days.
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He pushed the remainder of his meal aside, finding he was not hungry, and took yet another long draught of the wine. All the while considering his close brush with death this day. He had told no one of the event, not really sure within himself of its significance, so he let it slide. The pain in his left arm jarring him back to the present as Nathan washed the deep cut, aggravating the dull ache to acute new heights.
Bennett bore the treatment stoically as the bandage was applied, pleased with his new acquisition. Nathan had made great progress since his capture, learning many useful skills, though painfully thin and not much to look at he was indeed an asset around the camp. The boy had the added bonus he was less easily distracted than the camp's women, seeming to exist only for the benefit and pleasure of his Lord.
He had learned to cook, tend wounds, and even repair Bennett's clothes, and there would be plenty to mend tomorrow the big man mused, his eyes coming to rest on the great rent in his black leathers running all the way down his right inner thigh. The heavy hide fortunately saved him from even more injury than he had already sustained. Thinking at once of the cart piled high with the dead men's armor, promising that he would wear chain mail next time, that was if he could find some that fit.
Nathan had finished his work and was helping his Master into his heavy leather jacket, adorned with lengths of chromed chain. The bandages' bulk making even this massive garment fit almost too tightly. Bennett grimaced as he finally wrestled it on over his aching shoulders and back.
"Eat," he commanded Nathan.
Gesturing at the ample remains of his unfinished meal, the boy did not hesitate to comply and ate hungrily, as Bennett drank the last of his wine, watching his men displaying their grisly trophies and plundered treasures. Hearing them recount their ever-exaggerated tales of their kills, growing more far-fetched with each retelling.
His cool blue eyes scanned the courtyard looking for Renard, sighting him almost immediately against the far wall in his nondescript brown clothing, conversing with Aran, who by this stage had donned a flamboyant red shirt, to replace his old one destroyed in battle. His every finger loaded with heavy gold rings, and even more of the valuable metal glowed around his neck reflecting the firelight. He was very drunk, often leaning heavily against the wall for support, and it seemed that the two were indeed conversing though it was Aran who appeared to hold the floor.
Bennett looked away, returning his gaze to Nathan who by this time had eaten his fill and was wiping his hands and face on his tattered shirt. The boy looked up sensing Bennett's eyes on him, at once throwing his Master a flirtatious look, his eyes sparkling in the firelights' glow. The big man half smiled at this, his expression appearing as more of a sneer than a smile, sensing this change in Nathan now for some time. He had seen it before in some of his previous captives, though not all he lamented.
Pushing the unhappy thought roughly aside, not wishing to dwell on dead men. He was tired having not slept in days, and somewhat drunk, his only immediate desire was to lie down in his bed and rest, even in the clamor that surrounded him. Easing his hurting body into his blankets, and beckoning the young boy to join him.
Nathan obeyed willingly, nestling into the huge man's warmth, the first time he had truly been warm in many days, ever careful though not to press against his Master's wounds. As he lay there listening to Bennett's breathing shallow as he approached sleep, Nathan pondered his lot. He was a survivor and not as stupid as many there believed. Although he hated what this man had done to his life, he was quick to grasp the consequences of a world without Bennett's protection. With his family all dead who would care what happened to this boy who could not speak?
Nathan knew the answer, the best he could hope for was the life of a slave, his back bowed by menial tasks, but in all probability, he would just be killed by the others for sport, and of this he was afraid. Nathan knew what he and Bennett did was wrong, his grandmother would not have approved, but she was gone now as was Nathan's everything else. This brutal Master was all he had, his only chance to exist in reasonable comfort, his only insulation from the horrors outside, and until he could find better elsewhere he would please this man as if his life depended on it. Because in reality, it did.
Aran had been talking at him for the best part of the last hour, the man's speech so drunkenly slurred he could decipher little of what he said. The only information of use to Renard that he could glean from the oafish warrior was that Bennett had planned to march on Lothar's fort within the next three days. The cunning young man still in possession of his first drink had not had long to wait for his father's gift to do its glorious work.
Aran was too close, slobbering in his face, almost falling on him, attempting to relate yet another far-fetched tale of today's battle to his disinterested ears. Renard nodded patiently not listening to the gruesome tale, inwardly revolted by Aran's drunken display, knowing that his father would also be watching from somewhere high above the debauchery of his unwelcome guests. Thankfully it would be time to leave soon. Dale who was amongst the archers that day would have given his father the note to meet yet again in the wine cellar around midnight. Renard was anxious to be off, and infinitely pleased when he saw Bennett turn in for the night. Knowing he would now not have long to wait.
*****
Stephan was already waiting when Renard entered the cellar, noting that its contents were fast depleting under the appetite of Bennett's horde. They embraced warmly, Stephan proud of the fine man his son had become. Tall, graceful, and straight, ever neat in his dress and appearance, his dark brown, wavy shoulder length hair always cut, his mustache and goatee trimmed to perfection.
Renard sat on the bench top meeting his father's gaze his dark eyes mirrors of his own. "I did my best father, but luck was not with me this day."
"You did well my son, I am very proud. You took a brave risk, and our enemy Lothar will not trouble us for many a day. If indeed he still lives?"
Renard sighed disappointed with himself, and shifted restlessly. "That is just as well, though I think at this stage we should perhaps hope that he has?" A tone of mischief crept into his voice.
Stephan looked at Renard in a questioning way, not understanding the implications of his son's statement. "I do not see your point?"
Renard stood up and moved toward his father placing his long-fingered hand on his shoulder. "I think I know just how we can turn today's unexpected events to our advantage." Flashing his good white teeth in a wide smile, his father keen to hear more, began at last to understand...
*****
Aran awoke late the next morning lying on the cobblestones in a pool of his own sour vomit. The bright light hurt his eyes and his head ached as he hauled himself stiffly to his feet, making his way slowly to the fountain for a much-needed drink and a wash. Others too were stirring, most in a similar sorry state, very few amongst them feeling otherwise after their wild night of celebration. The well water was cold and reviving, though the headache still remained. Aran shook the water from his lion's mane, looking up just in time to catch his brother's amused gaze. Noting that Sven, as always seemed oblivious to the after-effects of too much drink, so unlike himself.
Sven smiled at his overindulgent brother's self-induced state, thinking that perhaps at last Aran's attitude was on the mend, and the pretty girl was finally fading from his mind. For this he was eternally grateful, as he loved Aran fiercely, this rash younger brother of his, Sven's only surviving family. The big man reflected on the past at that moment, recalling all their narrow escapes as the two of them sought to survive the trials the war had thrust upon them.
Aran smiled back through the fog of sickness rising in his gut as he held the sides of the fountain for support, his bejeweled fingers dipped in the cool, clear water, wishing that he possessed his brother's, or Gareth's constitution. Both of them had drunk heavily yet here they were, up already and on with the day's work. Whilst he could only think of retreating to the darkness of the barn to sleep it off, which is what he promptly did.
Bennett on the other hand had been awake since early dawn, the painful aftermath of his battle wounds making sleep, and comfort, all but impossible to achieve. For a long time, he just lay there, staring up at the fading stars, as the sun's dominance claimed the horizon once more for its own. His right arm draped possessively around Nathan's skinny torso, as the boy nestled into him in deep sleep.
Bennett had already decided what he would do next. He would stay here today and tomorrow, allowing his men and himself sufficient time to recover and prepare their weapons. Then they would march, the entire force, Stephan's men included, to besiege the Wolf Lord's fort. Lothar would either be dead or that close to it, and without Stephan's contributions of food it was a fair guess that life within the city's walls would soon, if not already become somewhat chaotic. Then he figured he would only need to wait.
*****
The five wounded men and their three surviving mounts were close to dehydration, and exhaustion. After two of their horses collapsed beneath them they were forced to discard their heavy armor and ride double. Still, they dared not slow their pace, or rest the ailing animals, they had no idea if they were being pursued, and their Lord grew weaker with each passing hour of their terrible flight to safety.
So it was that as the second evening drew in after the rout, the remaining survivors made it to the safety of their home. The fort's citizens and militia alike ashen-faced, at the ragged procession that greeted their eyes. All assembled hardly comprehending that this was all that remained of their once proud, elite-mounted core. The pride of their army, and their leader, comatose, near death, in their midst.