Baron of Blood (Dawning Era Saga)

by C. N. Faust

  Ezbon kept his face impenetrable. He didn’t let Nicholas see how deeply the words cut.

  “Be glad that you are on our side,” Nicholas continued, his voice trembling, his body physically shaking with his anger. “But once this war is finished, no alliances will protect you – no amount of past will keep you safe, for the House of Ercole will come down upon you. Be prepared to face its fury, for we will not rest until your house is destroyed! And whether we win or lose this war, I swear by the gods that I will not rest until I have killed you myself!” with those words, Nicholas shoved the tent flap aside and stalked out, his boots stamping angry prints into the snow.

  Ezbon stared after him. “Idiot,” he spat, and sank back down to the bedrolls. His side ached now, and his wiped the drying spittle from his face. He closed his eyes and sighed deeply, wondering if it would not have been better to just side with Sitharus and keep Nicholas an enemy. It would have been far simpler. It didn’t surprise him that Nicholas no longer wanted to even feign friendship, but the younger baron’s parting words still left a bad taste in his mouth.

  What seemed like hours after Nicholas departed, the tent flap parted again, and Remphan slipped in. His face was worn and haggard, but he wore a wry smile nevertheless.

  “M’lord,” Remphan greeted, saluted. Ezbon was too weary to return the gesture, he just nodded. “That was quite a fury.” Remphan said, jerking his head towards the tent entrance. “What did you do to him?”

  “Less than he deserved,” Ezbon rubbed his face with one hand. “Where are we, kind sir, if you would be so good as to tell me?”

  “Just outside Madrigal, Nicholas wants try again.” Remphan snorted and stepped forward, getting down on one knee beside his friend. He pressed his fingers gently to Ezbon’s swollen knee.

  Ezbon groaned.

  “How does it feel?” Remphan asked.

  “Like hell,” Ezbon replied. “I’ll be fine. I’ll be back up by late this evening.”

  “No you won’t, either. The physician says that you are to keep off of it until the swelling goes down, and I aim to see that you do. If you damage it permanently, we might as well sign our death warrants now. He says it isn’t broken, though.” Remphan glanced up. “You look like you want to kill someone.”

  “I do,” Ezbon said.

  “Hopefully the enemy, one of the bastards clipped me in the shoulder.” Remphan rubbed his shoulder and grimaced. “They opened up the old wound that was there, too. I’ll be fine if I don’t die of infection first. But I can imagine they’re all laughing at us down in Madrigal.”

  Ezbon nodded in agreement. “Toasting to their easy victory and laughing their fool heads off at our defeat. It couldn’t possibly be more humiliating.”

  “Well,” Remphan replied thoughtfully. “It could have been.”

  “I don’t see how,” Ezbon sighed. “We ran straight out of their city like children caught stealing from a bakery.”

  “That’s probably the worst analogy I’ve ever heard,” Remphan grabbed the wineskin hanging from around his waist and uncorked it, taking a swig before offering it to his fallen friend.

  Ezbon accepted the wineskin this time, placing the greasy rim to his lips and allowing the tart wine to flood his parched mouth. He grimaced in disgust and handed it back to Remphan.

  "Nicholas is going to get us all killed," he sighed, and rubbed his mouth with the back of his hand.

  "Yes," Remphan agreed, taking another drink before replacing the cork. "There isn't a damned thing either of us can do about it, either." he made a motion to duck out of the tent.

  "Where are you going?" Ezbon called after him.

  "To get as drunk as humanly possible," Remphan informed him. "Nothing drowns out the whining of a spoiled prick like some good, new wine."

  Chapter Eight

  “Wake up," a harsh voice, wholly unfamiliar, snapped. Charon felt a bruising blow to the side of his face that left a dull ache in his jaw. Startled, Charon sat up, gripping the covers and pulling them up over his shoulders to shield himself from the sudden cold. He was still in Ezbon's bed, right where he had fallen asleep, but something was definitely different.

  The difference was in the two men who stood by the foot of his bed. One sat on the windowseat, his left foot drawn up and resting on the wooden edge with his hand resting idly on his knee. He cut a dashing figure, silhouetted against the pale morning light, a mass of red curls tumbling loosely down his shoulders. His eyes were the color of cinnamon, but ringed with black. One bone white hand clenched the hilt of a fine fencing sword, useless for combat but ideal for show. The tip rested against the stone floor of the castle, its blade gleaming evilly in the candlelight. The other man was standing with his back against the wall opposite Charon, arms folded over his chest, with the black hood of a cape pulled up over his head. From underneath the hood he glared at Charon, his eyes the color of twilight- a deep, glistening blue. They too were shadowed with black rings. Both of the men's faces were ghoulish white, the faces of the men who had chased him in his dreams.

  Charon's mouth fell open, and no sound seemed to come out. He didn't think it was his own voice that eventually stammered out, "W-Who are y-you?"

  "Amnas," the one with the cinnamon colored eyes replied. "And Malachi."

  "What do you want?" Charon wished to the gods that Ezbon was there, but Ezbon had been gone for days. He was off fighting some war in Madrigal.

  The one called Amnas picked his sword up, and Charon could hear the tiny chink as the tip scraped against the stone floor. He placed the blade in one pale hand, examining it.

  "It's not what we want," Amnas said, his voice was like listening to the crackling of burning paper. "It's what His Majesty wants. Or rather, what the High Vizier wants."

  "What?" Charon pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders. "The king? Sitharus? What does he want with me?" he didn't even think the king knew his name! He must be dreaming again. But Ezbon wasn't there to wake him, and Charon struggled, but he could not pull himself out of this dream. "What are you? I don't have anything you want!"

  Amnas leaned forward, and his luxurious red curls didn't move. "We are warlocks, born of an age that far exceeds your own."

  Malachi shifted, but didn't say a word.

  Charon laughed hysterically. "Warlocks? Gods, you're damned spirits! You're a product of my own madness- I am going mad, aren't I?"

  Amnas's lips gave way to a hint of a smile, and he shrugged.

  "Why haunt me, if you're warlocks?" Charon challenged. "You have magic, don't you? You couldn't have come to me any other way?"

  For the first time, Malachi looked up, the expression on his face as gray and dark as a stormy sea.

  "Do not question our ways, when you know nothing of them." his voice was dark, like the bowels of a cave, ominous and echoing and deep.

  Amnas gestured for silence, and glanced back at Charon. "You've done a fine job of eluding us thus far, my little lordling, but we have caught up to you at last."

  Charon physically recoiled, gaping at them in something very much like horror. You've eluded us thus far, little lordling... how could they possibly know anything about his past?

  "Do you know my name?" he whispered. "My surname?"

  "We know everything about you," Amnas said, his voice now flat and devoid of inflection. "We've been watching you for some time."

  "Since you were born," Malachi's voice rumbled.

  "Since I was-" Charon couldn't believe it. He shook his head, dumbfounded.

  Amnas sighed. "Yes, we have tried to tell Sitharus for some time that there was going to be a war, but he is stubborn and would not listen. It wasn't until you were born that I noticed the war was just on the horizon, and so we began to follow you. We lost track of you only when your father disowned you and sent you away. But we found you again. It proved useful when Sitharus came back to us and all but begged for our help. He wanted an assassin, and we knew that you, with your past, would be the perfect candidate for
this job."

  "Stop," Charon pleaded. "Just stop. Assassin, me? If you have indeed been following me all of my life, you would know that I am the worst possible person to perform this task! If it has anything to do with killing people-"

  "Baron Clieous," Amnas' voice had turned cold. "Baron Ivan Clieous must die."

  "And you think I can do it?" more slightly delirious laughter. Charon rubbed his face. "I'm dreaming."

  "You have to, there is no other way." Amnas' long legs slid off the side of the window seat, and his boots touched the floor. "You are in a perfect position, as it is. You have the Baron Cavalla's heart."

  "I have his groin," Charon sighed.

  "Same thing," Amnas shrugged.

  "I can't use Ezbon to kill-"

  "No, you must do it." Amnas insisted, his voice like the blade of a cold steel knife. "Kill Clieous. The king will see you and reward you."

  "How?" Charon asked flatly. "How do you expect me to do that?"

  "I don't have all of the answers for you," Amnas quipped. "You have a brain, I assume. Use it." with that, he sheathed his fencing sword, and looked as if he were about to leave.

  "Wait!" Charon called, unsure of why he did so. A moment ago he wanted them gone. Now curiosity was eating away at him, and he wouldn't be satisfied until...

  "Yes?" Amnas raised an eyebrow. It stood out like a bloody gash against the heavy dark circles around his eyes.

  "My... family..." he paused, unsure of how to go about this. "Do you know anything of my brother?"

  Amnas' brow lowered. "Of course."

  Charon held his breath. "What will happen to him?"

  "He will die," Malachi answered before Amnas had the chance. The fairer warlock shot his companion a glare, which Malachi ignored.

  Charon's mouth went dry. "Die?"

  "Not in this war," Amnas amended. "Not in this war."

  "When?"

  "Very soon after," with those words, Amnas turned smartly on his heel. Malachi moved away from the wall. Apparently, he had been slouching, for he suddenly seemed much taller. The both put their backs to Charon and melted into the stone wall, sending ripples through it as if diving into a pool of water. Moments after they had gone, the wall solidified, and the room was empty.

  Chapter Nine

  It was still dark when Ezbon stumbled out of the tent the next morning, the snow crunching under his boots as he shuffled his way towards where the men were standing, preparing to leave. The fiery pain in his knee had been subdued to a dull ache. Mostly it was stiff from cold and from sleep, but that could be shaken out with movement. He did his best to keep a sure, steady gait, but he knew he looked like a lumbering idiot.

  "What did I tell you about staying off that knee?" Remphan asked crossly, quickly closing the distance between them. Ezbon found his charger and handed it over to a squire to be saddled.

  "It's fine, it doesn't hurt anymore," Ezbon lied. "I can walk."

  "Barely," Remphan finished tightening the strap to his greave and lowered his arm to his side.

  "Would you prefer I stay here and freeze? I'm not going to do anyone any good just sitting on my ass in the snow. I'd rather be impaled."

  "You might be," Remphan pulled his dark hair back and tied it off with a leather thong.

  "I'll be fine once I'm on my horse," Ezbon slipped on his own leather greaves, and Remphan stepped forward to help him strap them. "Just give me my axe, I can take care of myself."

  "I should have known you would be this stubborn," Remphan muttered, tightening the straps a bit more than necessary. "If you get yourself killed, it won't be my fault."

  "No, it will be Nicholas'," Ezbon withdrew his arm and rubbed his wrist.

  "Damn straight," Remphan spat to the side and rubbed his chin. "Gods, I could do with a shave."

  "As could I," Ezbon said, imagining his own facial hair must be outrageous.

  "Shut up, you look fine." Remphan glanced over his shoulder. "Here he comes. Gird your loins, men. Look like you actually think we'll win."

  Some of the men attempted to straighten their backs, but most didn't care. They looked like what they were - a dirty rabble of peasants with weapons.

  Nicholas strode out of his tent, looking like a man who ruled the world. His armor was the only metal suit in the entire encampment, and it gleamed with polish even in the lack of light. His blazing red hair had been oiled and slicked entirely away from his face, which showed off his strong, noble features. His jaw was square, and very prominent, his cheekbones defined under the pale creme white of his skin. His eyes were like fiery emeralds that burned with bloodlust beneath fine brows that arched in two perfect half-circles. He was tall and slender, a body that was made for more demanding excercise than lifting a sword. His helmet, which flashed silver in the sunlight, was tucked snugly under one arm, the black tail of it floating in the wind. His full cupid's bow lips were twisted into contempt, and white with being pressed together. There were three gold hoop earrings in his left ear and two in his right. Ezbon didn't know why he noticed this, but he did. He remembered that Nicholas loved jewelry; he loved to adorn himself in enough gold and rubies to support a small kingdom. A sharp pain brought him out of this reverie. Ezbon glanced down to see blood streaming from his palm - his nails had cut little half-moon circles in the smooth skin, and they bled vibrant red against the white. Perfect half circles.

  Like Nicholas' eyebrows.

  How perfectly ridiculous, he snorted, that you should notice such a stupid thing. Irritably, he wiped the blood away, and quickly tried to remember why he hated Nicholas again.

  He didn't have to wait long. All the Ercole had to do was open his mouth.

  Which regrettably, Nicholas was fond of doing.

  "Glad to see you're on your feet, Ezbon. I hope your knee isn't giving you too much trouble." his words dripped poison.

  "I'll live," Ezbon assured him, stiffly.

  "Pity," Nicholas shoved his helmet onto his head and grabbed the reins of his horse. He lifted himself onto the saddle with disgusting ease.

  Ezbon pressed his lips together and turned to mount his charger. Remphan extended a hand in aid, but Ezbon refused it. He pushed the foot of his good leg into the stirrup first, and swung his bad leg over the horse's rump and finally into the twin stirrup on the other side. His knee screamed in protest, and he winced, but he batted away Remphan's hand one last time and gripped the reins in his hands.

  Nicholas smirked at him, and dug his heels into the side of his mount. The stallion took off at canter, and quickly stomped the ashes out of the makeshift encampment as it made its way out. The other men followed, either on foot or on the mules or horses of their own that they had brought from home. The luckiest had mounts - the unfortunate had to run. Remphan took a tin flask from the depths of his leather jerkin and put it to his lips.

  "Brandy!" he gasped, grinning as he replaced the flask. "Something to get the blood going!" he urged his horse into motion, and Ezbon quickly followed.

  Madrigal was ready, this time. The gates were well-guarded, prepared to beat back the invading rabble before it could even reach the city walls. Ezbon gripped his hand-axe tightly as he swung it again and again into the skulls and necks and spinal cords of charging soldiers. He watched men fall underneath his horse's hooves and felt hot blood splatter against his face. It didn't seem to make a dent. It seemed like more of his men were falling than the enemy's. But the enemy's kept springing up from the ground like weeds. Two living soldiers replaced every one dead. The enemy could afford the men, he couldn't. It was hopeless from the beginning. Nicholas was a fool.

  And yet they pressed on.

  But they never even broke through the gates.

  The soldiers beat them back, brutally battering them with superior weapons and skill. The men screamed and fell back, more and more dying with each heartbeat. Ezbon counted ten men dead for every pulse that thudded in his ears. He wished to Azrael that he could block out the sounds, the sights, the smells - but he cou
ldn't. It was all there - a vivid nightmare playing out before his eyes.

  Nicholas had been fighting bravely up until this point. His sharp face was the perfect picture of bloodlust, he wielded his sword with skill and expertise. He looked like a god of war, fallen down from the heavens to wreak vengeance on his enemies - but again, it wasn't enough. When he gave the cry for retreat, everything fell into disorganized chaos. The men broke out into outright runs, and they began sprinting for the Baylur's Bridge. The very bridge that separated the boundaries of Madrigal from Drakkian Province, the very boundary between the battlefield and home.

  Ezbon turned his horse around. The soldiers were overwhelming. It was the bridge- they had no choice.

  "Remphan!" he called, and that was all he needed to say.

  "Two steps ahead of you!" Remphan screamed back, digging his morning star into the side of one soldier's face. "See you on the other side!" and he took off, a streak of scarlet across the early morning sky. Ezbon followed close on his heels.

  More men fell even as they retreated. Arrows whistled past Ezbon's ears, but none of them struck him. He almost laughed, wondering if it was just dumb luck or if the soldiers were just bad shots. The latter idea was strangely amusing.

  The bridge was shortly within sight. Half of the surviving men had crossed to the other side. Ezbon squinted to see better. More had survived than he thought, there must have been a couple thousand lining the cliff's edge as it was.

  But it wasn't just his men. These men wore a different color, worked under a different banner. He prayed to Azrael that Sitharus hadn't sent more men.

  "Ezbon!" Ivan Clieous rode up as close to the edge as he dared, a stunning figure in his leather armor astride gray stallion. "Get your ass over here, we're going to burn the bridge!"

  "WHAT?" Ezbon screamed back.

  "He's off his rocker," Remphan muttered. "Off his bloody rocker!" he was already making his way across the bridge. It groaned underneath the weight of the refugees.