Baron of Blood (Dawning Era Saga)

by C. N. Faust

  It’s about time too! Ezbon thought, but didn’t say a word. He continued to dig his axe until skulls and flesh and spines. One after another his victims sprawled in his path, writhing, a final waltz of death. The soldiers bearing his crest and the crests of his three companions seemed to overwhelm those in imperial black armor. It was like washing a tidal wave coming in to flush out a handful of ants.

  The city streets looked like a battlefield, when it was all over. The battle seemed to last an eternity, when in reality, it had only been a few hours. It hadn’t even lasted past lunchtime, but the numbers had been too great, too overwhelming on the allied side. Sitharus had assumed them to be easy to defeat, he had underestimated them, but he wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

  Rivers of blood ran down the streets, pooling into thick, dark puddles. Every crack in the street was filled with blood, and the stones were littered with bits of bloody flesh and fragments of bone and black armor. The bodies were heaped one atop another, bodies from all sides, but not one of the imperial army had been spared.

  Ezbon glanced at Nicholas, who shot him a hate-filled look. Ezbon glanced away.

  “We did it,” Ezbon said quietly.

  “Damn straight,” Remphan said. “Gods, I need a drink.”

  Charon threw down his knife. His hands were coated up to his elbows in warm, sticky blood. He looked at Ezbon and half-smiled.

  “Don’t believe I can take care of myself?” he asked, weakly.

  Ezbon laughed in relief, and Ivan echoed him. The other baron dropped to his knees, making a holy sign with his fingers and thanking Azrael that he was still alive. Ezbon repeated the gesture, ignoring the blood that soaked through his clothes as the cold snow that numbed his knees, depriving them of all feeling.

  Charon hesitated only a second, and then fell to his knees as well, screaming in pain as he hit the ground and launching into a hysterical fit of tears, shouting his prayer through chattering teeth. He rubbed his arms and rocked back and forth on his knees, praying, muttering, sobbing, shaking.

  Nicholas was the only one left standing. He stood in the snow and the blood, staring off at the ruin that had become his city.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Sitharus isn’t going to take this in good grace,” Nicholas said, pounding his fist into his palm for emphasis. “I say we strike back immediately, and hard.”

  “I agree,” Ivan said. “But where, and how, shall we strike him?

  “Is that even a good idea?” Ezbon interjected dryly. “Haven’t you noticed anything? Our only victory so far in this war has been on our own soil. Is it not better to wait and prepare for Sitharus’ inevitable retribution-?”

  “What is better, my dear Baron Cavalla, is that we do not sit here like boars waiting patiently for the slaughter.” Nicholas interrupted, hissing.

  “But boars do not walk into the dining hall and offer themselves to the lord’s table.” Ezbon shot back.

  “And if a slave longs for his freedom, he does not wait for it to be given to him!” Nicholas countered. “He’ll rise up and take it with force!”

  “But the slave doesn’t attack his master where the lord will be well guarded. He will wait to poison him in his sleep.”

  “What you suggest is double knavery, then. Cowardice and treachery!”

  “Both of which you seem to be well-versed in.”

  “Look at you two!” Ivan sighed, and ground his fist into his eyes. “Shooting proverbs back and forth like two old philosophers!”

  “Do you not agree?” Nicholas demanded.

  “I said nothing about whether or not I agree-“ Ivan began.

  “Am I the only one with reason?” Nicholas practically screamed. “Am I the only one who will do anything? This was your war to begin with, Ivan! Have you lost sight of our cause in so short a time? We began this war – by Azrael – we’ll finish it!”

  Ivan slammed his fist into the middle of the table, causing it to tremble beneath the impact.

  “Damn it, Nicholas! Will you hear no one’s side but your own?” he demanded.

  “Is my voice lost to your ears?” Nicholas exclaimed, exasperated. “Will the House of Ercole not be heard?”

  “The House of Ercole will remember its place,” Ivan snarled, leaning forward menacingly over the table. “I beg you to remember that you are one amongst equals, and Ezbon’s input will not be so readily discarded!”

  “But-“ Nicholas’ face was flushed with rage. His handsome green eyes were shiny with fury.

  “You are in no place to take matters into your own hands,” Ivan warned.

  “What if Ercole decides to do so?” Nicholas asked, his tone threatening. He looked nothing like the handsome god of war he had been a few weeks earlier. There were dark circles under his eyes, victims to his lack of sleep. A livid scar cut across his cheek. It was too old to have been acquired on the battlefield, and too fresh to be discounted altogether.

  “Ercole should remember that it stands to lose just as much as gain,” Ivan’s words were a more veiled threat. Nicholas took them for what they were, backing out of the conversation, stiffening in his chair.

  The three barons occupied the Siren’s Song inn once more. Its keeper had mysteriously vanished, but the barmaid was present and currently occupying Remphan’s lap. Remphan boasted loudly of the battle, waving around a mug of beer in one hand and fondling her full breasts with the other. Charon sat alone in his corner, staring into the depths of a mug of beer. He wasn’t thirsty in the least, though his throat felt dry and parched. He had a feeling that whatever he tried to keep down would come right back up. He propped his elbows up on the table and put his head in his hands. Behind him, he could hear the barons arguing more over each other than over their next move. Ezbon had gone quiet as the other two struggled to make themselves heard over each other. Charon ached to hear Ezbon’s voice; it had gone quiet since Ivan had entered the argument. His longing was so strong it was almost physical. All he wanted at that moment was for those strong arms to wrap around his shoulders and shield him from the horrors of war.

  But he had wanted to come, hadn’t he? He had practically begged. He had promised things, said things, he never even meant. Charon cringed inwardly and groaned, guilt gnawing at his conscience with the very thought. He hadn’t been thinking when he had blurted “I love you” to the baron. Those words meant nothing to Charon; he had never loved anything in his life. All he knew about those words was that they were magic. When you whispered them into a whore’s ear, the orgasms came faster, more frequently, and were better. People became more passionate with those words, willing to make fools of themselves in order to only hear those words again. He had assumed Ezbon would be the same way, but even then, the baron had hesitated. Charon had been worried that his magic words hadn’t worked. Even then, Ezbon seemed almost ashamed of the sudden declaration – as if he had never expected anyone to love him. And this lust that Charon felt, the need to be held and to hear the baron’s voice, only served to confuse his poor mind.

  Charon glanced over at the table. Ivan Clieous was angry; his face was like a gathering of storm clouds. A sudden hatred rose like bile to Charon’s throat that surprised him. It confused him, too. He had no reason to hate this man, and yet it fluttered angrily in his chest to the point where his heart felt like it was throwing itself against his ribcage. The more he looked at Ivan, the deeper his hatred grew. He gripped the table as if to stand, unconscious of every action.

  “He isn’t dead yet,” a papery voice drifted from across the table. Charon’s head jerked around and he found himself staring into cinnamon colored eyes. “I don’t understand why.”

  “I-I haven’t had the chance,” Charon stammered.

  “You held a dagger in your hand in the middle of a battlefield, when someone else could have easily taken the blame for you, and you haven’t had the chance?” Amnas replied in disgust. “Do you take me for a fool?”

  “No!” Charon replied quickly, afraid of the imp
lications that the one condemning question posed. He wished desperately that Ezbon would look at him, shake him awake and free him of this nightmare.

  “Kill him!” Amnas hissed, jabbing one accusing finger at Ivan. This movement was ominously copied by Malachi, who was nothing more than a shadow behind his companion. “What are you waiting for?”

  Charon looked down at his hands, focusing on his torn and dirty nails. “I can’t go over there,” he said.

  “Why not?” Amnas pressed.

  “You know why!” Charon said, bordering on desperation.

  “Afraid of being recognized?” the warlock taunted.

  “Yes,” Charon buried his face in his hands and sighed.

  “If he’s so dim he hasn’t noticed by now, I doubt he ever will.” Amnas said dryly.

  Charon looked at Nicholas. The war-like baron was locked in a passionate argument with his colleagues. The poor table took even more abuse as he pounded his fist angrily against the surface, the entire structure shuddering. Cups rattled on the tabletop, threatening to go toppling. Charon saw every trace of his father, the man he hated, embodied in this man who was his brother.

  Charon shook his head. “He’s my brother,” he whispered. The word was foreign to his tongue; he spoke of Nicholas so seldom in such a familiar way. “No, no, Nicholas hates me. He blames me for our mother’s death.”

  “And what better revenge than to take out his one truly ally?” Amnas egged on. “Once Ivan is gone, Ezbon will attempt to run this war. And we’ve already established your influence over Ezbon. Who is to say you can’t run a few things your way?” the warlock cocked his head to the side, as if it all made sense.

  “But I don’t hate Nicholas,” Charon argued.

  “And this really isn’t about whether or not you hate Nicholas, isn’t it? This is about killing Ivan, and it has to be done!” Amnas stood. Charon could see Malachi behind him now. How long had he been standing there?

  “But when?” Charon asked. “I can’t do it now…”

  “Tonight,” Amnas thrust out his chin. “It has to be tonight.”

  “Why?” Charon asked wearily.

  “Because we are not time-wasters, here,” Amnas said. And he was gone, just like that, not even a ripple in the wall or a footprint in the dust on the floor to suggest how he had taken his leave.

  Charon slumped in his chair. The beer was looking even less appealing to him now, and he shoved it away in disgust. His head throbbed with the beginnings of a horrible headache, and he rubbed his aching temples. How in the world was he going to get close enough to Ivan to kill him? And how was he ever going to explain it to Ezbon? It didn’t even look likely that three would so much as speak to each other again after this.

  “Arceia isn’t feeling well, I don’t think she would appreciate company,” Nicholas was saying.

  “It’s fine, it’s just fine, I’ll stay here,” Ezbon said, tucking his hair behind his ears.

  “I will, too,” Ivan said. “We wouldn’t inconvenience Arceia. We know she’s going through a struggle, what with a child on the way.”

  “Oh, yes,” Nicholas muttered. “A struggle.”

  Charon dug his nails into his palm and pressed his fists to his face. Blood bubbled between his fingers and ran in rivulets down his arm, but he didn’t care.

  He would have to commit murder tonight.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Charon bit the inside of his cheek as he forced himself to slide out of the bed, abandoning the heap of blankets and the warmth they offered in favor of the cold wooden floor and the chill night air. Ezbon stirred and rolled over onto his side, his iron gray hair fanning across the limp white pillow underneath his head. The moonbeams that filtered through a curtained, arrow-slit window bathed his face in a pale, waning light, making him look peaceful and all the more handsome. Charon swallowed past a lump in his throat and got onto his knees, searching around on the ground for his clothes. They had been abandoned in a wild frenzy earlier that evening, and he wished now that he had kept better track of where they had landed. He finally located a pair of pants and a white linen shirt. The pants were his, but the shirt definitely wasn’t, for it was loose and fell down almost to his knees. Sighing, he tucked the shirt into his pants, pulling on a woolen tunic over it and pulled on his leather boots. He looked around the room until he located the dagger he had used in the battle earlier that day. He finally found it underneath a woolen cape that he shoved aside while looking for his boots.

  The scabbard was simply decorated, and when unsheathed the blade he found it was sharpened, and gleamed with polish. Ezbon must have had it cleaned for him. Smiling to himself, he strapped the knife to his waist and glanced over his shoulder, just to make sure Ezbon was still sleeping, before he stepped out of the room. The door was old and screamed on rusted hinges when he tried to push it open. He opened it to the point where it was barely wide enough for him to slip through. Thanking Azrael for his wiry frame, he wriggled through, and shut the door quietly. He pressed his ear to the door, just in case. But Ezbon was still fast asleep.

  Releasing a breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding, Charon took off down the hall at top speed, landing as lightly on the wooden boards as he possibly could. He prayed to Azrael to give him vision, and not let him trip and break something in the dark.

  He tried to remember the room in which Ivan slept. Ezbon, Ivan, Remphan, and Charon were the tavern’s only guests for that night, so there would be no embarrassing missed guesses. But there was a lot of re-opening and closing doors in between now and then, and he wanted this job done as quickly as possible just so he could slip back into bed and get a little peace.

  He would think of an explanation later. He would have to make a mental note to be extra sweet to Ezbon.

  Snoring came from behind one door, seemingly rattling the wood in its frame as Charon passed. He rolled his eyes. That would be Remphan. As tempting as it was to shove a knife through his ribs, Charon simply bypassed that door.

  Ivan had rented one of the tavern’s nicer rooms, which meant that they made an effort to keep it clean and remembered to give him a chamberpot. He had specifically requested the chamberpot; for fear that they would not remember to give him one if he did not. He lay in bed and stared at the candle flame flickering on the side table near his headboard. He was facing the wall. To those coming in from the door, he was asleep.

  The door opened with a soft hissing sound. Ivan stiffened and slipped his hand underneath his pillow, his fingers closing around the pearl handle of his stiletto. He could hear muted footsteps as the door closed and a pair of boots crossed the wooden floor with painstaking whispers. Someone was approaching his bed.

  Charon saw the supposedly sleeping form of the baron. It didn’t seem right to do this to a man, especially a man who prided himself in being a great warrior. Ivan Clieous didn’t deserve to die in his sleep.

  But there was no other way.

  Silently praying to Azrael, Charon raised his knife.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “What news?” Sitharus demanded, sweeping into the study with an air of imperial dignity. High Vizier Aetius stopped in his study of the great map that hung on the wall and turned towards the king, sweeping a respectful bow.

  “Ah, your majesty,” the vizier groveled. “How kind of your majesty to so nobly answer my summoning. Your graciousness was not in vain, I do assure you.”

  “Yes,” Sitharus said, cutting the vizier’s words off with an impatient gesture of his hand. “Yes, yes, enough of that! What news of the war?”

  “They haven’t moved, sir, they’re still in the city.” Aetius reported. “They slaughtered all of your troops and sent them back in pieces by boat.”

  “The gall…!” Sitharus growled.

  “And now they sit and contemplate their move,” Aetius traced his fingers over the map, humming. “But I assure you, your majesty, everything is under control.”

  “I am hard-pressed to believe you, Aetius; I�
�ll need a better reason than just your words.” Sitharus said, making his way over to stand by the high vizier.

  Aetius continued to hum, unconcerned, as if he had all of the time in the world. He could feel the king’s patience slowly mounting, and secretly he reveled in it. He knew the answers, for once, and the king did not. He wasn’t going to let go of his secrets any time soon.

  “I told you that I would kill Clieous, did I not?” the vizier asked, finally.

  “Yes, and Clieous has yet to turn up dead,” Sitharus pointed out venomously. “Are you telling me that you haven’t found a way to-“

  “I’ve sent my finest weapons out in search of the perfect assassin,” Aetius smiled wickedly to himself, and glanced at Sitharus from the corner of his eye to better gauge his reaction. “You remember Amnas and Malachi, don’t you?”

  “How could I ever forget?” Sitharus shuddered inwardly at the mention of the two names. His most hated subjects in his entire vast empire – and they resided right under his roof.

  “Your father found them very useful in his day, and you remember how helpful they were when that silly little matter in Bascch popped up.” The vizier continued to gloat. Sitharus was becoming increasingly annoyed. “But now we have finally found a conflict worthy of their attentions – worthy of the use of their magicks! Don’t you quite agree?”

  “I don’t quite agree,” Sitharus said. “I don’t want anything to do with them, and you know it. There is nothing about this war that a little brute strength cannot control. I don’t like magic, you know that.”

  “Yes, I know that, but it has proved very useful!” the vizier continued. “See for yourself! Amnas, Malachi, please inform his majesty as to what you have done for me.”

  From a corner of the room that Sitharus hadn’t even seen, two men rose. One was tall and elegant, with burnished red curls and cinnamon colored eyes. The other was dark where his companion was fair, with navy blue eyes and short, chopped black hair.