Chapter 21

Not quite a full hourglass from time Rowan and his companions set foot from off the ship onto Broadmore, on the docks of the walled City of Penryn, right at the mouth of the Penryn River in the Southern Gulf, they found themselves outside the great walled gates of the city facing three great armies, of which only one was their own.

There, out of a great field outside of the walls of Broadmore's second greatest city, was the invading army of Drakland which stood ready for battle, holding it under siege. To their north, the assembled army of Broadmore, gathered together originally for the purpose of traveling northwest, to fight against the invading great horde of Eorfleode, that was still ravaging the western coast, nearly now up to Crystal Lake itself, but now ready and even eager to throw the invaders back into the sea instead. To the east, was Rowan's army gathered from the east, the combined force of his now well trained brigade with the addition of nearly the entire cavalry of Everdun. These three forces now faced each down each other with near equal malice

Now in addition to the south, unloading off the vast host of ships now at the docks, was the entire ducal army of Oswein, as well, and a steady stream of their excellent heavy infantry marched now outside of the city gates to stand ready ... for what, no one was quite at all sure.

Together, these four great armies all glared at each other, across the early winter mud of the great field outside of the city. Parleys had been agreed to and held, but nothing of any consequence had been resolved. Now four Dukes stood at the center of this large mucky field, empty of nearly all life and growth since the cutting of harvest, and now it waited being plowed by the marching boots of soldiers, to be fertilized with their blood and bones.

For the first time in over a generation, nearly all of the leaders of the Southern Duchies were now present at the same time and place. A truly historic and auspicious moment, the Foole was certain, assuming that he could keep all of the dense hotheads from slaughtering each other! And from the looks of things, it was not going to be easy.

He hinted, cajoled, pleaded and made suggestion after suggestion, but when all was said and done, there was a lot more said than actually done. If anything, the increasingly heated words between the elderly Duke Enos Fallorian of Drakland and Kelvin U'Roth, the young Duke of Broadmore, just showed that both leaders would have much rather been exchanging sword blows than words. Challenges were uttered and accepted and seconds were dispatched to find a relatively dry patch of land where the Dukes could more permanently resolve their differences. The Foole, throwing his hands up in the air in disgust, called the pair of them idiots, and stomped off to find a large wineskin to soothe his nerves with.

Pissed off beyond all words, Rowan then stomped out onto that bleak field to add his own angry voice to their counsels, and to bear warning as well that the first officer or ruler of any of the four armies that so much as stretched out a big toe out of line was going to get it burned off, with an angry infernal sword! In his ungentle and rather direct manner, he ordered the two Dukes to stay their itchy sword-hands until the real enemy, the Eorfleode, had been defeated. Then, and only then, could the two go ahead cheerfully cut each other's hearts out ... and Rowan would even offer referee the duel.

The Dukes then both politely suggested that the lad get his burning sword out of their faces or else they'd both, in surprising cooperation, take it away from him and shove it up his ass. Employing both armies to do it, if necessary.

Lady Ayleth, listening to the ever escalating arguments in increasing dismay, now decided that she had much to say about this waste of manpower and confused honor, and since she alone could really speak for the Duchy of Tellismere, she decided that it was time that she put in her oar, so to speak, at the council. Grabbing Gwenda's arm, they marched over to join the Dukes, and they quickly decided that the situation had already spun quite far enough out of control. The Lady put on her best 'I'm really pissed off' glare and set about to turn four angry Dukes into four rather frightened oversized boys.

"Alright, what is this I hear about a duel to the death, and before the Eorfleode have been driven from our lands? How just like an inconsiderate man! To dwell upon the pretext of honor, while in actuality just using it as a mask to cover your personal vanities! Women and children have died by the thousands, and yet still die today ... and many more will undoubtedly die tomorrow, all because you two dimwitted school boys can't resist the opportunity to whip out your tiny cocks to see whose is the biggest. From my particular vantage point, they're all equally small, and unworthy of the attention you're giving them, so lace up your trousers boys, there is some real fighting yet to be done!"

"Lady, you don't understand!" Duke Kelvin whined. "Duke Enos has already declared himself to be king of these lands! An outrage that no one shall stand for!" Indeed, the other two Dukes of Everdun and Oswein nodded their heads in agreement.

"Is that so?" She calmly spoke, in a tone that suggested an icy frozen wind had replaced her breath. "There will be no king over these or any lands of the Southern Duchies unless all of the Dukes of the land, along with all of their Earls and other nobles of the land, do agree so. Calling a duck an eagle just makes the declarer to be a fool, and it embarrasses the duck and doth mightily offend the eagle. Duke Enos appears to be of the size of my lack-witted gléaman ... perhaps a change of clothes is in order? Shall I measure you for a motley, my fool of a Duke?"

"Things are what they are, young Lady." The elderly Duke Enos muttered, as if repeating a long established story from rote memory. "Through the laws of inheritance, of blood and kin, this land upon which I now stand was entailed to me, and not the Earls of U'Roth, who usurped my inheritance. If that makes me a king, than so be it. My own nobles uphold my just lawful claim and are gathered upon this field to see that my rights are defended, with their blood if necessary!"

"How very tedious!" Ayleth casually remarked. "That you cannot ever let go of anything of the past. Do you still sleep at night in your old nursery, with a favorite old toy tucked under your arm? No, or at least I should hope not! Things are indeed what they are, and you landed upon these shores a Duke and you shall remain so when again you leave it, or are buried underneath its good soil for holding to an impractical claim. While some technicalities of law perhaps slightly support your ancient claim, many far greater claims of others are set against you, for it is very true that no man present here will bend a knee to you. You may make what claims you wish, but you are not, and never shall be ... our king."

"As my claim is just, not just a technicality, I must do as my honor demands. Aye, even if it means war against all four duchies, with all hands raised against me."

"You call that honor?" She laughed. "That isn't even within the faintest whiff of being within smelling range of honor. True honor means doing one's duty, to your fellows, to your people and to the land ... and lastly yourself. All else is puerile vanity! In example, if you were indeed appointed, anointed or otherwise crowned to become our king, what is the first royal command you would give?"

"Why, to demand the full submission and obedience of my Dukes, of course! For they will be a rebellious lot and I must force strong oaths upon them for their behavior!"

"Indeed? How tedious. I suppose you would also have to put a great many of your soldiers into their keeps and castles ... for extra insurance?"

"Obviously. That goes without saying. The lands must be held securely and all of the lords and barons kept to their oaths."

"Indeed? And I of course assume that a good many of your Earls and Counts, and other loyal nobles and knights of Drakland have been promised new titles and lands, within your kingdom. Perhaps significant ones, displacing some or many of the existing barons of the land?"

The would-be king hesitated for some time before answering. "It is only proper for a king to properly reward those who have served him faithfully for the longest, and that they should sit at the highest counsels of his table. Such is the way things have always been done."

"Indeed? For now I see much of the hollow nature of your so-called claims to honor! You take an old unobtainable inheritance and use this as a means to enrich your own land-power nobility. You much exaggerate your claims for justice and offer the spoils of the entire Southern Duchies to your noblemen, offering lands and titles that you hold no just claim over to others. Indeed, I clearly see that should you wear the crown of this kingdom, not a single squad of your soldiers would ever in fact face the Eorfleode, for even the lowest of your officers would be raping these lands for what bounty and treasure it still holds. You would be the lowest, most base sort of king — one who would take the lands from others without recompense and send all who would wish ill of your to battle in your stead, while you remained in safety behind. Surely, even with the direct threat of the Boar-Men destroying our final towns and cities, the true men of honor that remain would still fight against your injustice first. Such a delightful pleasure, unfortunately, at this time would be too inconvenient. Despite our disgust at your rapacity and selfishness, the dangers of the Eorfleode are yet far greater still, and it is against that terrible danger, in your shame, that you should look for a more practical demonstration of your so-called honor!"

"I bear no shame for my defense of my honor!" Enos shouted.

"Then you are a witling, Sir. A man of too base character to even lead as a lowly baron, let alone as a Duke. I know you well, My Lord, for I once thought and acted just like you once, when I was a very foolish young girl. You are unworthy Sir, even for the rule of your own island. A Duke, or a Duchess, must love their land, and if they cannot love the people who make it prosper then they should at least be able to respect them. This is why you are a poor Duke, and why you must never be allowed greater and loftier responsibilities. Your very arrogance insults the ground on which we walk, and disrespects the soldiers that you have brought to this land, in your vanity, that will all die unless you can find some means of reducing your severe personal demands of honor."

"Were you a man, and not still a girl, I would draw arms on thee for your insults to my personage and honor!" The elderly Duke muttered.

"Indeed? I almost wish you now would. My champion, a man who truly understands what honor is, and what it isn't ... would be delighted to take off your gentle head right here and now, and I'd wager that not a single other nobleman here present would mutter a word of disapproval. In fact, it's really the best option for everyone! Your head is far too full of misunderstood and faulty notions of honor and duty to be of any use to any of us, except perhaps as a future example to others. A lesson for fathers to tell their sons about how one should never promise with their mouth what their coin purse or sword hand can't deliver. Please, my Lord, open your foolish senile mouth yet but once more, that good Rowan here, a man far your better in every measurable way, can remove this one loud angry pimple from the ass of the Southern Duchies, that all might live and breathe easier!"

"My Lady Ayleth, you have gained much in wisdom since we last spoke!" Kelvin U'Roth said, smiling. "But you are negligent in one small but very significant matter! The good Rowan, as you say, is yet still a commoner, and it would set a rather bad precedent for such men to be decapitating Dukes. In fact, with your permission as he is your subject, I would like to correct this slight difficulty! As he saved all of my lands in the east, and defended my honor boldly against my rebellious barons, I would have him kneel before me that I might reward him appropriately."

"Indeed!" The Duke of Everdun added. "I would have knighted the lad myself weeks ago, and indeed I well should have, save that he was acting upon your behalf, and he did not wish for any confusion to arise between the Dukes of the land. If you will allow me to join you as well, I too would offer my sword to knight the lad!"

"As would I!" Interjected the mostly overlooked Duke of Oswein, a short baldheaded and hard-faced weather-beaten man of middle years who looked like he'd spent his forty years traveling nonstop between battlefields. "I've met the man but recently, but I'm still hearing entirely new tales of his valor and courage, and not just from the glib words of the gléaman! Duke Enos, if you had a shred of true and honest honor within you, you'd offer to add your authority, such as it is, to this knighting too. The duchies have damned too few good honest men of principle and integrity, especially in the ranks of the nobility, and I would see this man made noble ... so at the very least he can freely cut off your obdurate and inflexible head without the remotest stain of dishonor or reproach."

"So, there it is Duke Enos Fallorian." Ayleth stated, calmly, loudly and clearly so that everyone could hear. "You have three choices. First, you can drop your childish dreams of building a kingdom. No one else wants to play, so you can cease your pointless little war with Broadmore and agree to march or sail your army north with us and fight the Eorfleode instead. Two, you can die with your pointless dream. If it will make you feel better, we'll put a crown on your dead skull after Rowan chops it off, before we bury you. If you have not the honor to face our champion Rowan ... note, I said 'ours', for he stands for all of the Southern Duchies ... and you will too, or else you will be removed from our way. Or alternatively, if you have not the stomach to die in a formal duel, with but a nod of my head my personal arms-mistress Gwenda, she can arrange for a slight accident to befall you instead. The dozen of us gathered here will all swear that you fell on your sword, in disgrace. I'm sorry my Lord, there will be no battle here today! Your men, and ours, are all too valuable and necessary to our collective survival to spare. For even a single arms-man to die for your stupidity is more than we can tolerate at this time. So sorry. Thirdly, and lastly, you can stop crying like a spoiled child that didn't get a treat and negotiate a reasonable settlement to your differences. Mark me well, Your Grace - you're not going to become a king, so unless you can swallow your honor and pride, a lot of very happy púcel are going to be playing kick-ball with your rather thick skull across this muddy field in just a few minutes!"

The Lady Ayleth had measured the mood well and now she had the prideful Duke in a corner. From his unhappy looks towards his own army, he knew that he could not prevail here today by arms, nor did he dare to force his claims for the kingship, to fight against Rowan, whose sword was still out and glowing with infernal flame. Even the hard looks of the arms-woman Gwenda, whose eyes just glared malice, unnerved him yet more and he did not like at all the way she was fingering her long dagger, now drawn in her hands.

"There shall be negotiation." The saddened elderly Duke decided. "Despite my ambitions, I too love these lands, for I wanted them indeed for myself to rule and enjoy, but I shall adjure that dream. As Duke of Drakland, I shall greet my brother of spirit, the Duke of Broadmore, and make such terms and agreements as we might, upon my oath that as it is within my hands, no soldier shall fight or die this day." Offering his hand, with his steel gauntlet removed, the Dukes then grasped arms in truce and friendship.

Ayleth and Gwenda smiled, it had been a very near thing.

"It's all in the eyebrows." She remarked to Boyle later. "You scrunch them all up tightly in a beady-eyed sort of look, and give the unfortunate man, or men in this case, your best 'I'm going to castrate you with a dull butter knife' glare. Then you speak to them like naughty children, quietly and slowly, with soft words that hint of even duller knifework if they don't play complete and utter attention to you. Then you let your upper lip quiver with emotion and let just a hint of a tear show in the eyes, misting rather than flowing. Then you look at them sadly, like your ill-trained puppy has just shit upon your favorite rug, and ever so politely suggest that they get their heads out of their asses. Men are so simple! They can't bear the thought of bringing a woman to tears, especially when you convince them that it's all 'their entire fault' in the first place."

First, before offers and terms were suggested, with the Foole Oddtus once again playing the role of mediator, the four Dukes, together with the Lady Ayleth, each drew their swords and formally conducted the ritual homage-oath to Rowan, knighting him as a nobleman of the Southern Duchies, not just Tellismere. Each Duke made the oath-promise of bestowing some lands to the lad, the exact grants to be more specifically determined after the Boar-Man invasion had been repulsed. Boyle, already a Viscount of the Aldarian Empire, via his duel in Corælyn, was knighted too on principle, just to give him some firm local authority as well. Gwenda, already nominally a noblewoman, albeit an extremely minor one of the lowest rung, declined any additional promotions, saying that she'd share her husband's reflected glory instead. To make the point further, she kissed Rowan hard on the mouth and took his hand in hers for the remainder of the negotiations.

The settlement, aptly handled by the Lore-Master, was mostly in the form of a ducal arranged marriage. Perola, the youngest sixteen year-old daughter of the Duke of Drakland was unmarried, and accounted to be well-favored in looks, but also had a good mind as well. She tended to be rather bookish, but enjoyed the outdoor sport of riding, and was accounted to be a good hunter with her hawk as well.

Duke Kelvin's younger brother, the Earl Roland U'Roth, who was taller and more handsome than his brother, and accounted by everyone to be of pleasant personality, stood forward to make the initial consort-pledge for Perola's hand. In turn, Duke Kelvin swore before the assembled Dukes and nobles that he would make the child of Roland's and Perola's marriage, his sole heir to the Duchy. Instead, should he later marry and have children of his own, to them the old family Earldom would be entailed.

This agreement was put to charter, and the four Dukes and the Lady Ayleth were the formal primary witnesses, with another several dozen nobles of the various duchies brought in to add their wax witness seals as well. It was an agreement no one really liked, but no one absolutely hated it either. Accordingly, the Histrio considered it fair and suitable for all, and the Dukes agreed that if it would prevent a civil war, then they could deal with it.

Surprisingly, there was one thing that Rowan and the Foole now found out that at least one of the Dukes could not in fact deal with ... the idea of men marching and fighting together with goblins!

Duke Orland of Oswein had heard a great many odd things in the messages that he received from the messengers of the Duke of Everdun, including some mention of an accord, if not quite an alliance with the púcel. He had rather hoped this had been some sort of misunderstanding, or misquote from the Duke, but the moment Ayleth mentioned the goblins playing kickball with Duke Enos' head, he started to badly worry that the night-goers were indeed present.

When he found their not insubstantial camp, his fretting became panic and his mood turned to one of fury, and with a face quite scarlet in rage, he dashed back to find Rowan, accounted by all to be the commander of these small vermin, determined to see them well and gone from the combined army, err a single one of his soldiers step one more foot towards battle."