by C. N. Faust
Apparently, the king was all too eager to prove him wrong.
Nicholas had hastily penned a note beneath his signature, one that read; “We cannot stand by and do nothing any longer. There must be action. Ercole is with you.”
Ivan’s excitement grew at the words. Briefly, he considered that the Baron Ercole didn’t even know what he was saying. In just a few short sentences, he had pledged his allegiance to the House of Clieous. Meaning whatever move Ivan decided to make, Nicholas would have to throw his hand in, whether or not he believed it was the right course of action. Perhaps it was hasty, but Nicholas had just admitted that he didn’t know what the best course of action was going to be, and was willing to let Ivan take the lead.
Ivan grew more and more enthusiastic over the idea, his rage slowly quieting, but not disappearing. It was the fuel for his fire. Revolution was finally on the horizon. Finally, what he had been waiting on for three years! All that remained was to hear from Ezbon, but the Baron Cavalla had not said a word so far. Perhaps he had not heard, though Nicholas had insisted that he sent word to him as well. It was in all likelihood that Ezbon wasn’t even home yet, or if he was, he was mulling it over, as he tended to do with everything. It could take him months to finally land on a decision he liked and then stick with it.
But they didn’t have that kind of time.
Ivan lunged for his desk, shoving aside the ever-patient message bearer as he did so. He grabbed a sheet of parchment from the compartment just below the wooden desk, and then in his free hand he selected a partridge feather quill pen and dipped it into an inkwell. The ink splattered on his paper as he dragged the nib over it in the air, and then finally penned a quick note of his own.
We are running out of time. We must have your decision now. Ercole is behind us if you join. Don’t be afraid, we will prosper if this happens. But it has to happen! Whether your join us or not.
~B. Ivan Clieous
He folded the paper as neatly as he could, flattening the creases with his ink-stained fingertips, and stamped it messily with his wax seal. Perhaps things were not as pressing as he thought they were. Perhaps haste wasn’t needed, and caution was. He almost hesitated before he scrawled Ezbon Cavalla’s name across the paper and handed it to the message bearer. The courier looked down at the message once, understood what he was to do, and bowed before scurrying off. Once he was out of the way, Ivan reclined heavily in his chair, wondering what was going to happen next.
Unfortunately, here came the part that he loathed the most.
The waiting.
Ivan had never been a patient man. He enjoyed getting things done as quickly as possible. He liked for events to progress quickly – and unfortunately, a messenger (on horseback if he was lucky, shank’s mare if he was not) was not the fastest means of getting word across the province. But there was nothing he could do about it. All he could do was wait, and pray to the gods that Ezbon made up his mind quickly – for once in his life.
* * *
It was early in the morning when Ezbon received Ivan’s letter. He was sitting in his dining room partaking of his morning meal, pretending to go over some of the recent farmer’s reports while in truth reading a book of poetry. It was by a poet named Clapheus, who had existed years before Ezbon’s time, and who was one of the first poets in all of Dragoloth to actually have his work bound. His works were a bit dark, very wordy and hard to swallow, but Ezbon enjoyed reading it. He liked something that challenged him to think. And even if he had to read the same poem three times to understand it, he hung over every word the man ever wrote. Worshipped him, in a fashion. He possessed an admiration for people who were talented with words. It was a talent beyond him.
The doors to the dining hall flung open, and Ezbon glanced up, unperturbed. The messenger lingered in the doorway for a moment, leaning heavily against its frame, his cheeks red and puffy as he tried to catch his breath. Ezbon went back to his book, lifting a heavy mug of mead to his lips and allowing the sweet, honey liquid to slide down his throat.
“My lord,” The messenger said, stepping forward and trying to assume a pompous, confident manner. It was slightly hindered by his winded appearance. “Forgive me for disturbing you, at this unholy hour.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Ezbon said quietly, setting his book down and leaning back in his chair. “I’m sure there’s a damned good reason.” There was a subtle warning in his words.
“There is, sir,” the messenger’s hands immediately dropped to the leather pouch hanging from his belt. He unbuckled it and lifted the flap, slipping his fingers inside and digging around. There was a rustling of parchment, and then he emerged, triumphant, with a many-times folded square. He unfolded it so that Ezbon’s name was clearly seen on the front, and then handed it to the baron without any further ado.
Ezbon took the letter from the messenger’s hands, slicing the wax seal open with his thumbnail. The letter was short and concise, signed with a signature that he knew well. Sighing, Ezbon read it twice before setting it down on the table and rubbing his face with his hands.
“My lord…?” the messenger asked, after a moment.
“What?” Ezbon did not look up.
“Is it possible that you may wish to … dictate a reply, my lord?”
“No,” Ezbon waved his hand dismissively. “I shall send for you when I have need of you. If you go down to the kitchen, I’m sure they will feed you until then.”
The messenger bowed. “You are most gracious, my lord,” he said, and left.
Ezbon resisted the urge to hurl the mug across the room and at least have the satisfaction of it shattering against the wall. Of course Nicholas would leap to Ivan’s defense at the first sign of trouble. He had always been a power-hungry, opportunistic bastard. If there was anything in it for the House of Ercole, it wasn’t much of a surprise that he had given Ivan his full support. But that put Ezbon in a tight situation, and both of them knew it.
If Ezbon did not throw in his support right away, he would seem hesitant, and unreliable – but also very possibly a mute threat. The other two barons might see him as a possible alliance for Sitharus, and they might attack him. The House of Cavalla was powerful, but it could not possibly fight against the both of them. Two barons stacked against one would hardly be fair, but they didn’t care about fairness. They were both desperate men and they were going to fight to the death to get exactly what they wanted. And then, if Ezbon did not give them his support, he would have to face alone the indubitable outpouring of the king’s wrath on Drakkian Province.
He didn’t know if his house was ready to take such heavy blows. They might not survive it. They struggled along on prestige alone, trusting their ancient name and great reputation to carry them where they needed to go. Money and land hadn’t been a problem for them until Ezbon’s father had died, and his foolish brother had squandered away every dera of their fortune. The bastard had then gone and gotten himself murdered in a bar fight, leaving his younger brother to rebuild the family fortune and keep the family name in tact.
He was in a conundrum, and Ivan knew it. What was worse, if Ivan knew it, then Nicholas did, too. And they would prey on his weakness until they had wooed him to their side or destroyed him. Should he remain isolated from their ‘revolution’, and should they win, then there was no limit to what they could do to him or his house.
Ezbon banged his hand on the wooden table, the tin plates trembling with the vibrating force. “Damn,” he muttered, pushing his gray hair back behind his ears. He had no choice.
He would have to make it very clear to Ivan where he stood in this war. He didn’t think it would last a fortenight after it was declared. The barons were acting as butchers, and the infantry, the common people, were like lambs to the slaughter. They would all die in a thankless revolution that they had never asked for. Perhaps they had dreamt about it, in the safety of their homes, huddled around the comforts of a fire and family. But dreams were not realities, and it was only when they c
rossed the line that separated the two did things start to get heated.
If Clieous and Ercole fell, it would be up to Cavalla to clean up the mess. As usual.
Growling in his throat, Ezbon pushed the letter aside and picked his book back up. Yes, he would dictate a reply to Ivan. He would join this fool’s revolution, if only because he had no other choice. He would defend his family as his province, and Sitharus would pay for bringing this misery upon his head.
But all of that could wait; he had yet to finish breakfast.
Chapter Five
“This is a fool’s pursuit, Ivan.” Ezbon said, for perhaps the fifth time since he had arrived at Clieous Castle.
“You don’t think we can win,” Ivan said, spreading the document out in front of him and giving it a quick once-over. It was a declaration of war of Drakkian Province against its mother empire. Once it reached Sitharus, there wasn’t any turning back. The three of them had spent the last few days writing it up, and it was perfect. All that was left was for them to sign it and seal it.
“No,” Ezbon scoffed. “I don’t think we can win. I don’t think it should even be attempted. In fact, I think you should go to Sitharus and apologize. Maybe if you grovel, he’ll give us back our trade. And then things won’t be so bad, hm?”
“Never,” Ivan growled. “I would rather rot.” He dipped his quill pen into the inkwell, and signed his name, a flourish of black ink across the pale parchment. “Besides, it’s deeper than that now. You know we can never go back. This is revolution we’re talking about! We could be independent men – we could be kings!”
“We could be dead,” Ezbon shot back. “We could be desecrated corpses on a battlefield, which sounds the more likely to me.”
Nicholas walked over to Ivan, plucking the quill pen from his hands and signing his own name under the previous baron’s. His was a slightly more flamboyant signature, with a loop on every letter. “Don’t listen to Ezbon; he’s merely bitter because he was the last to be consulted.”
“I resent not having a say in things,” Ezbon said, his voice low, his glare dark. “Especially when it concerns me and the survival of my house.”
“This is not just your survival, it’s all of us,” Nicholas pointed out. “If we go down, face it, Ezbon, you are too. One way or another. Sitharus won’t spare you if he wins, and we wouldn’t either, if we won. You would have nowhere to go. Short of exiling yourself, and we all know you have such silly family loyalties-“ his words were cut off when Ezbon grabbed him by the collar, iron fingers twisting into the rich linen and silk. He lifted the heavier baron up until the toes of his boots barely scraped the ground, and then he dragged him close, leaning in and placing their foreheads together so that they were eye level.
“I suggest you bite your tongue,” Ezbon said, his voice barely audible. “Before I cut it out.”
Nicholas glared at him defiantly, and Ezbon released him. The Ercole staggered back, barely avoiding falling on his rump and Ezbon snorted, turning away.
Nicholas stepped forward, adjusting his wire spectacles, and held out the pen.
“Sign,” he said, his teeth clenched. “You have everything to lose.”
“And everything to gain,” Ezbon took the pen, and leaned over the document. After a moment’s pause, he signed his name under the preceding two. His was a short, bold signature in even, spidery strokes. It rested on the page like a dark spot of ink, barely a signature at all.
He replaced the pen to its inkwell, and it was as if the tension had been lifted off the shoulders of all three of them. It had been there since that morning, when Ivan had pronounced the document finished. But the tension was just replaced by a newer, settling fear. They had declared war against their own king. They knew what the consequences would be, and there was no going back. From this point on, they would have to plan their every move carefully. Not only their lives hung in the balance, but the lives of every citizen in Drakkian Province. They would have to rally their support as well, or this war was as good as lost.
And the declaration hadn’t even yet left the table.
Each baron pressed his seal into a puddle of wax, stamping the document and making it official. Once all was signed and sealed, Ivan rolled it up and tied it with a black satin ribbon.
Ezbon immediately grabbed the decanter of brandy, and filled three crystal glasses with it.
“I need a drink,” he said. “I don’t know about you.”
“I second that motion,” Nicholas grabbed one of the crystal glasses, and wetted his lips with the dark amber liquid. Then he lifted his glass into the air, and smiled triumphantly.
“To our revolution!” he exclaimed. “And to us, may Azrael grant us favor in his sight.”
“Here, here,” Ivan drained his glass in a single drought, and quickly refilled it.
Ezbon sipped from his glass slowly, not sharing their enthusiasm. The alcohol dulled his jittery nerves, and kept him from shaking so badly.
Somewhere, deep in his soul, he knew they would not win this war. These men were fools. Young, ambitious, damn fools.
And so the afternoon stretched on, and Ezbon toasted their imminent defeat to the dregs.
Chapter Six
What Ezbon was entirely unaware of was that somewhere across the kingdom, his sentiments were being forcefully and viciously echoed.
“Damn fools!” King Sitharus raged, the dark purple vein that snaked across his temple pounding with frustration, sticking out like a subtle warning sign. “Damn, damn fools!” he threw the declaration of war down onto the table. The sheaf of parchment glided inches over the wood, floating to the floor and getting snagged on the rushes. Sitharus didn’t bother to pick it up; he didn’t even look at it. He hadn’t even read the entire thing – he had only to look at the first few lines and it was clear as day to him. His province was rebelling against his authority. They meant to try and make themselves an ‘independent’ country. They were idiots. They had no idea what kind of responsibility that would entail. They would collapse after a fortenight of trying to exist on their own.
It did not surprise him in the least that Ivan Clieous was the orchestrator of the entire ordeal. Ivan had developed poisonous hatred for him over the last three years, and he had no idea why. Everything had been fine up until the rebellion in Baccsh had been crushed, and the King’s Code had been passed into law. Then, things had started to go downhill.
It didn’t matter. Whatever the reason, Ivan Clieous had made it very clear that he now considered himself to be Sitharus’ enemy. Secretly, Sitharus wished it wasn’t so, but he quickly pushed such emotions away. They could only get in the way of what needed to be done. If this rebellion was to be crushed, then its leaders would have to be captured and executed – no exceptions.
But it was such a shame. They had been such good friends.
Sitharus growled, not wanting to believe it. He bent over and swept up the document, reading it over briefly before crumpling it in his gloved hands. His advisors stood around him, gravely as men attending a funeral, with their hands folded in front of them. They awaited his verdict, though they knew what was coming. The king would have no choice but to declare a full-out war with Drakkian Province. He could have had the option of ignoring it and treating it as nothing more than a minor uprising, if it had just been a band of unorganized peasants. But the names and seals stamped clearly onto the paper were those of wealthy, influential men. Barons. They could not be let off so easily. Others might get ideas.
“It troubles me greatly that Ivan is doing this,” Sitharus admitted to his advisors, his gaze fixed on the crumpled document.
“We sympathize with you, my king, and understand your pain,” his High Vizier Aetius Roemnu replied, stepping forward, his chin dipped low to indicate the utmost of humility. “But your hands are tied in this matter.”
“Yes,” Sitharus hated it when he didn’t have options. “I suppose they are.”
“I might suggest sending someone in to … reason wi
th them,” the High Vizier lifted an eyebrow, as if to convey his meaning to the king without saying it. Sitharus’ eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, searching the vizier’s dark green eyes for a sign of what he might be hinting at.
“Reason?” he asked, licking his lips. “What on earth do you mean, Aetius?”
“This war might be easier won, sire, if we could convince the rebel leaders to cooperate.” Aetius’ tongue flickered between his teeth, placing a delicate stress on his meaning that Sitharus was unable to grasp thus far.
“Get to the point; I didn’t get much sleep last night.” Sitharus said, giving up.
Aetius sighed, lamenting at what he had to deal with.
“Your majesty, if I may, I suggest you send someone down to talk to Baron Clieous. See if you can talk him into surrendering. If he admits to his treason, no blood may be shed. If he does not…” he shrugged. “Well, he will have to be executed, won’t he? A well-placed knife would certainly be called for in such a situation.”
“An assassin, then,” Sitharus licked his lips again, his teeth peeling the drying skin away from his bottom lip.
The High Vizier said nothing. He didn’t need to.
“Who do you suggest?” Sitharus gnawed on his lip, and felt the blood fill his mouth. It was thin, watery. He needed to feed again soon.
The shadow of a dark smile flickered over Aetius’ lips. “I know just the man.”
Chapter Seven
“….War,” the word was sigh that passed through Arodi’s lips. Mournful and heavy, as if the weight of the world had just been placed on his shoulders. He kept very still, his hands clasped dutifully in front of him, his back rigid as he was forced to watch the scene that was occurring in front of him. And here he was, helpless to break in.
