by C. N. Faust
“Nicholas should be worrying over his own problems,” Ezbon said, checking to make certain the stable boy had done an adequate job. “He’s the one with an entirely provoked border attack, not we.”
“Ezbon,” Remphan’s words were half-muffled by the pipe. “If you ask me, this entire war is just one great cock-up of human nature.”
“That neither of us support,” Ezbon glanced at the double-bladed axe hanging from his saddlebags. “So why do we fight?”
“Because the alternative to fighting is arguing, which has never been your strength, my dear would-be scholar.” Remphan reminded him. “You were not born to be a diplomat.”
“Do you continue to tell me, but I had no choice in the matter.” Ezbon muttered.
Dawn was breaking out over the sky, turning it a very suitable shade of blood red. Traces of midnight black crusted around its edges, leftover from the long, dark night. Ezbon rubbed his hands together, even though they were gloved, and waited anxiously.
Charon finally emerged from the castle, dressed very somberly in dark blue and black. Ezbon turned his eyes away, blatantly ignoring Remphan’s knowing stare, and mounted his horse.
Charon didn’t say a word. He accepted his roan gelding from the waiting groomsman with a grateful nod. The groomsman bowed and backed away. Charon mounted with an easy, fluid grace and nodded towards Ezbon.
Ezbon sucked in a breath through his teeth as he responded with a slight half-bow, hating himself, hating the world. Hating his admiration and his lust for a boy he had picked up off the streets. He could hear his inner voice mocking him. It sounded like Nicholas.
“Really, Ezbon! How far the mighty do fall.”
Remphan took one last drag from his pipe and turned it upside down, tapping it and watching as the black tobacco fell from the chamber and onto the white snow. He tucked the pipe away into his saddlebags and blew a cloud of smoke into the air, slowly.
“Are you finished?” Ezbon asked, forcing politeness.
“Just a moment… yes,” Remphan said, with a final puff.
“Good,” Ezbon said sharply. “Let’s move.”
Chapter Fourteen
Baron Nicholas Ercole presided over one of the richest sections of the province, for it was the closest to the sea, possessing the only one port in all of Drakkian Province. Their main industry was fishing, and they made a hell of a lot off of it. Each baron had a source of his won wealth. The Cavalla family made their fortunes in furs, the Clieous family built their fortune on mead, and the Ercoles had fish.
Ezbon had never been overly fond of the fishing city, mostly for the smell. He absolutely despised it. He hated how it permeated the air and managed to foul up the entire cluster of cities that thrived off the one port. He hated the people, their uncouth manners, their vicious slang and their rugged way of life. The most he hated about the city, perhaps, was the fact that it belonged to Nicholas.
Nothing had happened yet, but he could tell they were ready for an invasion. In the distance rose the turrets of Nicholas’ castle. The streets were throbbing with life, throngs of people who swarmed together in masses to perform a variety of actions. They haggled over the prices of fish and bread, or over the price of a new net. He heard sailors cursed and spit and woo whores. He saw women dragging their ragged children behind them as they counted coins and clucked over the prices of grain and spices sold by the ounce. The children rebelled against their mothers, clumping together and breaking off into their own groups to play games of hot cockles or dragonsnaps until their mothers pulled them apart and dragged them home.
Charon wrinkled his nose but didn’t say a word. Remphan was more vocal on his opinion.
“Gods, Ezbon, what kind of a hell have we fallen into?” he asked, dashing a hand across his nose.
“Keep your voice down,” Ezbon hissed. “Just for once, can you think about what you’re going to say before you say it?”
“I can’t help it!” Remphan insisted. “This entire town smells like a whore’s-“
“You would know, I imagine.” Charon quipped before Remphan could finish his thought.
Remphan shot him a glare. “Not as well as you.”
“It takes one to know another,” Charon hissed.
“Which explains quite a few things about you, I’m sure.” Remphan growled.
“If you two are going to squabble like two old women, we are going to have some problems.” Ezbon snapped. “Don’t make me come between you two.”
“He started it,” Remphan said. “He has no place in my conversation.”
“There wouldn’t be any intelligence in it if I didn’t interject,” Charon pointed out.
“Shut up, both of you,” Ezbon glanced around the village, trying to make head or tail of the particular building he was searching for.
“I’ll shut up when he ceases to insult me,” Charon said.
“I’ll be the bigger man, and shut up first,” Remphan glared at him. “I refuse to give up moral high ground.”
Ezbon wasn’t paying attention to them any longer. His eyes continued to scan the crowds, and the building. ‘The Siren’s Song’, was the name that Nicholas had given him, and that was all he had to go by.
“I think you gave it up a long time ago,” Charon scoffed.
“Well, at least I’m not sleeping with my lord.” Remphan shot back.
“That is your loss,” Charon purred.
Remphan cursed something that was lost in a sudden gust of wind. The same wind sent a painted sign, faded and cracked with age, banging against the side of a wall. There, Ezbon’s eyes fell to the sign, the Siren’s Song tavern.
Nicholas and Ivan were waiting inside. They were waiting to argue with each other until they were finally attacked. There wouldn’t be any talk of battles or plans until Sitharus marched through the gates of the city. Nicholas still didn’t think that his city would fall under siege. He called it ‘too predictable of Sitharus’. As if the attack on Madrigal had been completely unexpected.
“I’m going this way,” Ezbon announced, suddenly. “Feel free to catch up at any time.”
Charon and Remphan looked up just in time to see him riding for the tavern. They exchanged glances of pure mutual hatred and urged their own horses forward, following him at a set pace.
The tavern was surprisingly empty. For a moment, Ezbon wasn’t certain if they were still in business. But one of the barmaids was out sweeping snow away from the walk, her full and generous breasts bouncing with each swift movement of her arms. She looked up only briefly as Ezbon dismounted from his charger and placed his foot against the first step that led up to the tavern.
“Is this place in business?” he asked, gently.
“I’m sweeping in front of it, aren’t I?” she snapped, looking up at him, annoyance written clearly across her sunburned features.
“Yes, I suppose you are,” Ezbon looked around at the shabby inn, its rundown walls, its door hanging slightly ajar, as if it no longer was able to close all the way. “Tell me, have you seen the baron in here today?”
The woman glanced up at him, and shoved a brown curl away from her eyes. “Maybe I have, maybe I haven’t,” she said, pursing her lips. “You never can tell these days. So many rich men blending in with poor men, what with the king’s new laws, and then this war…” She shrugged.
Ezbon stepped forward, and grabbed her freckled wrist. She drew back, but he kept his grip firm. With his free hand, he dug into the coin purse on the side of his belt and withdrew a thick gold piece. Pressing it into her hand, he leaned forward and whispered something in her ear.
The woman nodded, stiffly, and gestured vaguely with her hand. Then she bit the gold piece, examining it before deciding she was satisfied and tucking it into her dress pocket before returning to her task.
Ezbon walked inside the tavern, swinging the door open and not particularly caring whether or not it shut on its own. Charon and Remphan exchanged looks.
“I’m not going in there,”
Charon snorted.
“I am,” Remphan said, readily dismounting. “It’s cold out here and there’s beer in there.”
Charon cast a look at the disheveled inn. “I wouldn’t trust it.”
“Beer is beer,” Remphan said, and walked in through the door.
Charon sighed. Now that the oaf mentioned it, the cold was beginning to settle in on his bones, but he would never, ever admit it.
He sat there and waited, and prayed this meeting would be short.
Inside the tavern, Remphan’s entrance went unnoticed. The three barons were gathered, and they were deep in discussion.
Ezbon had found them. Ivan and Nicholas were seated in the middle of the room, otherwise empty and covered in a thin layer of dust. The tavern keeper stood behind his bar, idly dusting the countertop with a sooty rag, being entirely counterproductive. Ivan held a mug of beer, and Nicholas clenched a goblet of watered wine. Both looked entirely unhappy and like they had lost too much sleep.
Ezbon walked over to them, shaking the snow from his hair as he did so. The floorboards creaked under his boots as he walked across the room, and the room’s three occupants immediately looked up. The tavern keeper went back to his polishing immediately. Nicholas also looked down at his hands, but Ivan beckoned Ezbon over, a tired smile on his face.
“We thought you’d never find us,” Ivan said. “We’ve been here all morning.”
“Crowds,” Ezbon offered, by way of explanation as he sat down. Nicholas did not look up at him, still, and Ivan continued to talk.
“I guess we might as well get down to business-“
“What business?” Nicholas suddenly interjected. “It should be obvious, even to us. We’re just sitting here like three lame ducks just waiting to be attacked! Why don’t we go and meet Sitharus full-force? Let him know we’re ready!”
“Because, darling,” Ivan’s words dripped sarcasm. “That would be stupid.”
“Not that you are a stranger to stupidity,” Ezbon replied, stroking his chin.
Nicholas’ cheeks burned furiously and he looked back down at his hands, fingering the chip that had been made in the base of his goblet.
“Sir!” Remphan called, slamming a gold piece down on the counter. The tavern keeper looked up, annoyed at being yelled at when he was barely three feet away, and walked over to his latest customer.
“Yes?” the keeper asked, belligerently.
“A pint of your finest,” Remphan said grandly.
The tavern keeper looked grimly at the gold piece. “I don’t have change.”
“Keep it,” Remphan waved grandly. “A pint – now, man!”
The tavern picked up the gold coin, examining it from all sides, biting down on it like the woman had, running his fingers over its rough, uneven edges.
“What is this?” he asked, suspiciously.
“A gold dera,” Remphan replied. “And more than you’ll make in a year-“
“A pint is two copper dera,” the keeper said.
“Then that should buy several,” Remphan continued, not one to be deterred.
“I don’t have change,” the keeper said, slowly, as if his customer hadn’t possibly understood him the first time.
“I remember,” Remphan said, his patience beginning to slip. “Keep it, I don’t care, I just want the fucking beer-“
“Don’t be a child, Nicholas,” Ezbon finally said, quietly.
“Don’t be an ass, Ezbon,” Nicholas snapped, glaring murder at his former lover.
“Don’t you two ever quite?” Ivan asked, exasperated. “When I formed this alliance I had no idea the two of you would have been at each other’s throats like this!”
“I don’t think any of us were thinking very clearly that week,” Ezbon snorted. “The very fact that we are here is proof of that.”
Nicholas stood, pushing his chair back so violently that it rocked back on its hind legs, threatening to topple. By some miracle, it came forward, clattering back on all fours before ever hitting the ground.
“Do you wish to take this outside?” Nicholas growled. “If you don’t wish to struggle with us, Ezbon, you should have said so.”
Ezbon looked up at him. “I joined for Ivan’s sake.”
“You joined because you didn’t want a two-front war!” Nicholas snarled. “And isn’t that what this is all about? More power, however you may achieve it?”
“If that were my goal, our goals would be very similar indeed,” Ezbon reminded him. “Because I was under the assumption that this entire war was just for the benefit of Ercole. Might I remind you of how quick you were to throw your hand in with Ivan?”
Nicholas grabbed his goblet and brought it down to slam into the side of Ezbon’s head. Ezbon ducked, and wine went spilling everywhere, the goblet smashed against the edge of the chair and exploded into pieces.
“Hey!” the tavern keeper called, interrupting his haggling with Remphan over the price of beer, and exactly how much of it one could buy for an entire gold dera. “I don’t want any of that in here! Take it outside!”
“Isn’t there enough fighting?” Ezbon asked, not dragging his eyes away from Nicholas. “Without you making things worse?”
“Stop it, the both of you!” Ivan called, but his opinion on the matter was lost.
“Shut up, Ivan,” Nicholas snapped. “This is not the place for you to interfere.”
“Nor the place for a fight!” Remphan agreed wholeheartedly. He and the tavern keeper had finally come to an agreement. Whatever beer Remphan bought that he could not drink would be poured into wineskins and stored away for a later date.
“Shut up, Remphan.” Ezbon said.
“Remphan?” Ivan glanced up in relief at the distraction. “How good to see you, friend, it’s been a long time.”
“Several months, aye!” Remphan saluted and performed a half bow, a pint of beer clenched in his free hand. “Pleasure to see you again, my lord.”
“I trust Ezbon is treating you well?” Ivan reclined in his chair.
“Well enough,” Remphan provided a lecherous wink and swallowed a mouthful of beer.
“Come on, Ezbon,” Nicholas snarled. “Take me up on my challenge! Are you scared?”
“Of you, Nicholas? Never.” Ezbon stated softly, to which Nicholas responded with a glare. He raised his hand to bring it down across Ezbon’s face; the tension in the room was thick enough at that moment to slice with a knife.
The door swung open, wildly enough that it slammed into the opposite wall with a bang. The tavern keeper looked up again, annoyed, wondering who in the world had entered and what in the world had been broken and how in the world he was going to pay for it.
Charon stood in the doorway, breathless, his cheeks and lips ruddy with cold and his eyes wild with panic. Ezbon stood immediately, brushing Nicholas aside impatiently. “What is it, boy?” he asked, purposefully careful not to address Charon as familiar.
Charon looked at Ezbon, and his mouth tried to form the words, but couldn’t. He closed his eyes, fighting to compose himself, and pulled himself together, straightening, and clenching his fists by his sides.
“Forgive me, my lord, for the interruption,” he said, trying to make his voice as deep and important as possible. “But there seems to be a problem outside.”
“Problem?” Nicholas and Ivan echoed at the same time.
“Yes, my lords,” Charon never removed his eyes from Ezbon. “I think the city is under attack.”
~†~
“Shit!” Remphan’s eloquent words sliced through the air, shattering the silence that followed the announcement. It seemed to be the trigger word that set everybody in motion. Nicholas reached down and grabbed his sword, gripping it by the hilt as it to assure himself it was still there, and took off running out the door. Ivan was close to follow, muttering a string of blue curses. Ezbon followed his companions, and Charon was close on his heels. Remphan was the last to follow, sliding lazily off his perch by the bar and taking one last sip
of his beer before grabbing his morning star up in his hands and heading for the door.
“Holy Azrael, how did they get here so fast?” Ivan shouted. No one answered.
The city was being overrun. Sitharus’ troops were moving in quickly, pouring in by the hundreds, and none of the barons were quite certain where they had put their own troops.
“Which could present a problem,” Ezbon muttered. He remembered where Remphan had sent their men, who had been ordered to join with Ivan’s men whenever possible, and both groups had been ordered to join up with Nicholas’ army. Assuming that all three groups had found each other, and were in the right place at the right time…
If not, they were all as good as dead.
“I don’t think we’ll make it,” Ezbon said, even though he knew Remphan couldn’t hear him. “Charon, go for cover!” he didn’t care who heard him, at this point. His main objective was to get Charon out of harm’s way, but danger was everywhere, choking off their hopes of escaping with their lives.
Charon shot him a glare, and gripped his knife in his hands. It seemed a puny thing, a little glint of silver that would barely slice bread. Ezbon cursed himself for ever bringing the boy along with him, and resolved to never do it again.
Peasants screamed as right and left they were cut down. The imperial army had no mercy for men, women, or children. All were subject to the cruel, compassionless blows that came raining down upon their heads. There was the dull sound of blades sinking into flesh, and the thick, heavy thud of skulls as they split open and their contents went spilling out onto the stone road.
A soldier charged forward, his black helmet glinting evil and purple in the sunlight, his sword flashing high in the sky. Charon darted forward, digging his knife into the man’s stomach. The soldier crumpled and went down like a ragdoll. Charon jerked the knife free, hot blood spilling over his white hands. Ezbon cringed at the sight, and sank his axe into the head another soldier.
“You wouldn’t believe this, Ezbon!” Remphan called from nearby, his arm locked around a soldier’s neck as he wrenched the man’s head to the side. There was an audible crack and the body hit the ground with a sickly thump. “I think the cavalry is here!”
