The next day, morning light had just filtered through the high windows, casting crisp geometric patches across the floor.
Old Walker knocked on the heavy wooden door of the Lord's Residence.
He clutched a piece of tanned leather, covered in crude symbols drawn with charcoal.
"My lord, this is... this is the battle damage report you requested."
Old Walker carefully spread the leather across the desk in front of Veylin.
The leather bore distorted sketches of axes, armor plates, and horses.
Beside each crude drawing, several... crooked symbols had been neatly marked in a brand-new style of notation.
This was one of the results of Veylin's attempt to establish night classes for his management staff-Arabic numerals.
His gaze swept over the leather as he rapidly converted everything into monetary value in his head.
"Thirty-one sets of heavy armor, most of them damaged."
Even in their battered state, these Dwarf-style chain mail and plate armor components, once repaired or dismantled for materials, would be worth more than several years of surplus revenue from an ordinary barony.
A windfall.
"Twenty-eight warhorses. Three dead, all with injuries of varying severity."
With diluted [Restoration Potion], those injuries were only a matter of time.
Each of these rigorously trained warhorses was a liquid asset worth more than ten Gold Suns.
"Weapons: thirty-four regulation battleaxes and longswords of various types."
The workmanship was passable, but without enchantments, their value was limited. They could serve as basic equipment for the militia or simply be melted down.
All told, the spoils were worth close to a thousand Gold Suns by a rough estimate.
It was hard to imagine a baron struggling on barren land could have amassed such wealth.
Veylin had to admit that Baron Orlan was quite good at making money. His judgment simply wasn't as good.