Baron of Blood (Dawning Era Saga)

by C. N. Faust

  “Who are you?” Ivan whispered, unable to make out his opponent’s face in the darkness. “Tell me, so that I might mark it on your grave.”

  Charon didn’t move, he barely dared to breathe. He wondered what the baron would do to him if he were recognized.

  “Tell me!” Ivan growled with quickly growing impatience. He pressed his knife closer to Charon’s throat. The blade warmed to his skin, and he could feel its biting edge.

  “Charon!” Charon cried, unable to remain silent any longer. “My name is Charon…”

  Ivan’s brow furrowed with confusion. “Charon…”

  “Ezbon’s man,” Charon supplied in a small, frightened voice.

  Confusion was replaced by a darkening anger on Ivan’s brow. “Ah yes, I recall.” He pressed the knife ever closer. Charon gasped as he felt warm blood trickle down his throat.

  “So tell me, is this Ezbon’s doing?” Ivan demanded.

  “No!” Charon exclaimed, cursing himself for being so ready to take the blame. Why not let Ezbon take the fall for him? He could be out of town before they ever figured out the truth.

  “It would be like him,” Ivan ruefully withdrew the dagger and stood.

  “You’re not going to kill me?” Charon marveled aloud, feeling his throat for damage. There was a hairline slit. His fingers came back bloody.

  “Not yet. I must consult my fellows,” Ivan hissed, emphasizing the final word with a hint of poisonous contempt.

  Charon shrank back as Ivan grabbed a long shirt and his pants. The baron didn’t even put them on. He just threw them over his arm and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

  Charon heard a lock slide into place. He knew he was trapped.

  “How,” Charon wondered despairingly, “from where I started, did I ever reach this point?”

  He sat on the edge of the bed where the Baron Ivan had been only moments before. Ivan was gone now. All that remained of him were the rumbled bedcovers speckled with dark blood.

  But the blood wasn’t his. It was Charon’s.

  The knife had only grazed Charon’s shoulder, but it had been enough. His sleeve had been soaked through, and was stiff now that it was dry. He hadn’t counted on Ivan having a knife of his own. He hadn’t counted on Ivan being awake at all. He had erred, and now he was going to pay.

  The door was shut and locked. Who knew how many men stood guard outside as Charon patiently awaited his doom. There was nothing else he could do. They had taken everything from him. They had even taken Ivan’s weapons, pulling them from places Charon would have never thought to look. They had bound his ankles together to keep him from attempting escape. He could only stare at the door, waiting for judgment to come.

  And he knew judgment would be in the form of Ezbon Cavalla. He didn’t think he could face that.

  He knew how men treated traitors. And now this being, this powerful baron – this man whom he had professed love to, even! – would not take kindly to his betrayal. No doubt Ezbon was angry. There was not a single niggling doubt in Charon’s mind that he was destined to death, if not torture beforehand. Yet he did not fear Ezbon so much as Ezbon’s retribution.

  There were voices outside the door. Charon sucked in a freezing breath through his teeth. He braced himself for what was to come.

  This is it. Ezbon will walk through that door, and then you’re finished!

  The old lock turned, and the door groaned as it slid open. Charon’s stomach lurched. He fought the urge to throw himself onto the ground and beg. Azrael, I can’t die, I’m not ready to die…

  But it wasn’t Ezbon who walked through the door. It was Remphan Orchiello.

  Fear was replaced by galling hatred that rose to Charon’s throat like bile. He glowered at the lord he hated, wordlessly daring him to take a step further. Remphan met Charon’s gaze, his one eye glinting wickedly. He reached up to adjust the black silk that draped across his face, but he kept his distance.

  “Fine predicament you’ve gotten yourself into, Ezbon’s boy, mighty fine.” Remphan smirked.

  Charon’s cheeks burned. “Where is Ezbon?” he demanded.

  “On his way, although I wouldn’t be so eager for his arrival.” Remphan took a step closer. “I’ve never seen Ezbon lose his temper, but I can tell when he is angry. And he is very angry.”

  Charon licked his lips. “Oh?” his voice sounded very, very small.

  “But what puzzles me is this,” Remphan stroked his chin, purple suede gloves gliding over pale skin. “Why Ivan? You barely know the chap as it is… it would have made much more sense if you had made an attempt on Ezbon, or even Nicholas.”

  Or you, Charon thought, but he kept that to himself.

  “Now, don’t mistake me. I respect Ivan.” Remphan said. “But I know he had made many enemies up in the capital. By the way, where did you say you were from?”

  “I didn’t,” Charon snarled.

  “Ah,” Remphan waved his hand. “But you never told Ezbon.”

  “He didn’t ask…”

  “And he found you, didn’t he? You were just sitting on the street. It was just an innocent happenstance.”

  “And how would that work?” Charon ground his teeth, his hands knotted into fists. “Ezbon didn’t find me until a few hours after Ivan had announced the idea!”

  “Ah, but Ivan had to have been planning this months ahead!” Remphan roared back. “Which means that someone was spying on him, and could have sent you to use Ezbon somehow to change Ivan’s mind, but that didn’t work, did it? So you resorted to a second plan.”

  Charon felt his heart drop like a stone to the pit of his stomach. Did Remphan know of Amnas and Malachi? How could he possibly know?

  Remphan was standing directly in front of the boy now. Charon struggled greatly to keep his hands in his lap; knowing that attacking Remphan would only bring a harsher sentence down on his head.

  “Who put you up to it, Ezbon’s boy?” Remphan’s voice was so low that it quavered.

  “No one,” Charon lied, shaking. He was afraid. He was afraid and he hated it.

  “It had to have been someone. Why else would you want Ivan dead? You met him only yesterday.”

  “No one!” Charon wanted to scream at him, but he could barely bring his voice above a whisper.

  Remphan’s hand shot forward. Suede gloves dug into the wound on Charon’s arm, sending agonizing pain shooting up to his shoulder and chest. Charon screamed and pulled back. But his feet were bound, he could not attack.

  The wound throbbed. Charon wanted to crawl under the bed and hide from Remphan, hide from the rest of the world.

  “It will be worse for you if you deny it!” Remphan shouted.

  The blood was flowing again over Charon’s cool skin, hot and sticky.

  “No one,” Charon buried his face in his hands. “No one, no one…!”

  Remphan grabbed a handful of blonde hair and jerked the boy’s head back. One furious eye glowered at two very frightened ones.

  “Listen to me, Ezbon’s boy!”

  “My name is Charon!” Charon found the voice to scream.

  “Remphan,” a new voice drifted from the doorway, soft and yet cold as steel. Charon glanced at the door. He hadn’t even heard Ezbon come in.

  “Ezbon,” Remphan replied dryly. He released his hold on the boy, spinning on his heel to face the baron.

  “Leave us,” Ezbon’s voice did not raise a jot.

  “I was just questioning him,” Remphan said defensively. “Ivan instructed me to do so.”

  “And you’ve done a marvelous job. But now you’re done here.” Ezbon’s mouth turned down into a scowl. “Leave us.”

  Remphan brought his heels together and bowed curtly, unhappy as he was with the situation. With one last look at Charon, he exited the room.

  The door shut.

  For the first time, Ezbon met Charon’s gaze. Charon couldn’t hold it. He dropped his eyes and waited. He suddenly realized, that after all the torture of waiting
, he didn’t want to be alone with the baron anymore. He expected Ezbon to scream, to hit him. He waited for the baron to curse and scream and rage. But there was only silence.

  Then there was the sound of a blade sliding from its oiled sheathe. Charon’s breath caught in his throat. No words, then? He was to die without the chance to defend himself?

  Ezbon crossed the room soundlessly. Charon’s heart thudded in his chest as the baron knelt before him and grasped his calf.

  His bonds fell away, the knife sliding through them as if they were strips of silk.

  Ezbon hesitated only for a moment after that. His hands slid up and down Charon’s muscled calf. But then he stood, sheathing his dagger. Charon could not hold himself back any longer. He slid off the bed and landed hard on his knees. It was painful, and he didn’t care. He bowed low, his forehead nearly brushing the ground and his hands on the top of the baron’s boots. He felt Ezbon balk in surprise, but he didn’t move.

  “Please!” Charon exclaimed in a rush of words. “Please, please… let me explain!”

  “Is there any explanation?” Ezbon asked, quietly.

  “Yes,” Charon insisted, trying to swallow past the lump in his throat, to breathe past the burning in his chest. “Merciful Azrael, yes! There is so much more, if only you will hear it!”

  “I am here,” Ezbon said, coldly. “I am listening.”

  Now that Charon had been permitted to say his piece he could not find the right words. How could he begin to tell Ezbon what had happened? And would the baron believe him?

  He dared to hope.

  “My dreams,” he began by way of explanation. “They keep coming, and I haven’t been able to wake up! Without you, I never can.”

  “Your … dreams.” Ezbon’s voice was flat, unbelieving.

  “Yes,” Charon’s head was swimming with all the blood rushing to it. “You have to believe me! I don’t know where they come from. I must be going crazy or… or something! But in my dreams I see these men, and they – they always want Ivan dead!”

  Ezbon furrowed his brow and pulled away. Charon remained on his knees, looking up at the baron with entreating eyes.

  “Do you take me for a fool?” Ezbon demanded. “Am I supposed to believe any of this rot? What you did was a hanging error, Charon. Do you realize that?”

  “Yes,” Charon’s voice was barely audible.

  Ezbon spread his hands, a man defeated.

  “Let me prove it, if I can.” Charon pleaded. “I don’t know how, but I swear to you that I have no grievance against Ivan Clieous that would make me do such a thing.”

  Betrayal and hurt fought for control of Ezbon’s features. He rubbed his face with his hand wearily. It was too much for him. First Nicholas, now Charon. The men in his life were intent on betraying him in one form or another. And they always expected him to forgive them. Ezbon, they told him with their smiling lips and their lying tongues. Ezbon, how we love you, how we want you to forgive us, because we cannot live without you. He had been Nicholas’ puppet, but he would not dance to that tune ever again.

  But here was Charon, the king who said he loved him. This young, impossibly attractive creature, the kind whom Ezbon thought could never endure someone like him.

  He realized, with sudden clarity, that he loved Charon too. That beautiful white neck that he was so fond of kissing could not be broken by a hangman’s noose, it couldn’t be. Ivan would be furious, but he would have to understand. Ezbon couldn’t lose this boy now. He couldn’t – it would destroy him.

  Ezbon dropped down to his knees in front of Charon. The boy looked at him, fear shining behind his blue suede eyes that were glassy with unshed tears. Ezbon touched the boy’s cheek and slid his hand down, behind his neck, drawing him close.

  “I believe you,” he whispered against Charon’s mouth. He felt rather than saw those soft lips part, and then he dove in for a kiss, his tongue darting to greet his love’s. Charon latched on to him eagerly in return. His kisses were of one desperate and drowning, a dying man reaching for heaven.

  “I do believe you,” Ezbon reiterated when they parted. “And Azrael help me, I don’t even know why!”

  A tide of emotion washed over Charon, and he rested his head on the baron’s shoulder. It was a love so sudden and great that he had no doubt it was genuine.

  “Thank you,” Charon closed his eyes, clinging. “Thank you, thank you.”

  “I can’t let you escape without punishment,” Ezbon said thoughtfully, stroking Charon’s blonde hair. “They would not stand for that. But you will not hang. I promise you.”

  Charon was so relieved. He wanted to kiss Ezbon again to express his gratitude, but he felt too weak to move.

  “Let me talk to Ivan,” Ezbon continued, more to himself.

  “I’ll stay right here,” Charon muttered. “I won’t move.”

  “Of course,” Ezbon replied, and fell silent. They both sat there in silence for a long time, neither willing to let the other go. Ezbon wrapped his strong arms around Charon and pulled him close, cradling him protectively. Charon tilted his head back and kissed his chin. Ezbon trailed kisses down Charon’s throat and shoulders. Charon’s kiss burned on his lips, so great was his passion.

  This continued long in to the remainder of the night until the stars began to fade.

  Chapter Two

  In the darkness of the dead of night, the Dragon Council met.

  They met in the west tower of Castle Dragoloth. The castle was the center of Sèrviell where the royal family resided. The tower itself was a more recent addition. It had been built many years ago as a prison for Sitharus’ father. The old king had gone too far and abused his power, and thus he had been deemed unfit to rule. His son Sitharus, ambitious and sixteen at the time, decided it was high time for him to claim his inheritance. With Aetius’ help, the old king was shoved bodily off his throne. He had been driven to his knees, and the gold crown had rolled off his head to hit the side of Sitharus’ foot. Even so, Sitharus had restrained himself from slaying his own blood right there, before the gods and the stunned courtiers as witnesses. Aetius had advised against it, as well. The prince’s first decree had been then to imprison his father in the highest tower. It was a tower so high that it was rumored the roof disappeared into the clouds and did not stop until it reached the sun. It had been heavily guarded, cutting off all hopes the king might have fostered of either escape or rescue. Deprived of human blood and company, the old king had withered away to nothing. No one knew how he died. They only discovered the body when the guards started to complain of the smell.

  As of that day, the tower was primarily abandoned. It was still heavily guarded, however. The rumors that it was haunted were undying, and there was ever an endless score of young boys who thought to be adventurous and climb through a window or a hole and catch a glimpse for themselves of the old king’s specter.

  It was also, of course, for the king’s private use. It was often where he held his meetings, or at least the ones he didn’t want Aetius to know about. The advisor, however, was present this time. He stood against the wall behind the king’s chair, his hands tucked sagaciously into his bell sleeves, his expression as smooth as a slate. He was out of sight but not out of mind. Every member of the council was aware of his presence. It disturbed most of them, but they did not dare voice their concerns to the king.

  The tower room was crumbling around them. If the appearance of that one room spoke for the whole stability of the tower, one might fear that the tower would topple over altogether with a gust of ill wind. Bits of crockery and vellum pages from lost volumes still littered the ground from where the old king’s meager possessions had been demolished. There was a single slanted window in the roof, as narrow as an archer’s slit. It was a window to the night sky and allowed the moonlight to seep in, bathing everything in a pale, eerie glow.

  The most major piece of furniture was the round table which took up almost the entire room. It was black polished wood, thick as two m
en’s wrists and solid as stone. On the sides, the names of the ten most powerful in the country had been carved in beaten gold. And there, at what was considered to be the head, was the name Matrador in flowing script.

  King Sitharus entered the room, and the entire council stood. There were many of them, at least ten. Out of all fifty barons that made up the empire, these were the ones that Sitharus trusted the most.

  There was Baron Renchald Krzysctof of Emoril Province, with his fellows the barons Carmine Anatoli and Konstantin Marian. There was Baron Florian Nicos and the province Katina, and his fellow Magnus Agust. There was Baron Elias Turtem, the cousin of the king. There was Santo and Oren Rosendo, the twin barons whom even birth had not dared separate. There was Baron Rafal Yaron of Chinyere province and Baron Kari Pall of the Alake province. They stood, solemn, ready to serve their king. Some were old and hardened men; others were much younger, fresh barons. But they all had something in common. They had been taught well by their fathers, they were well-versed in the ways of the court and the world. They were educated and their served their god and their king with equal loyalty and rapture. They were his most powerful, loyal supports. They had come to discuss war and the pledge once more their allegiance. These were the king’s men.

  Sitharus sat down and the rest of the council was seated. They all looked to him, silently expecting. He looked from one to the other, the wheels turning in his head as he sought for the right words to say. He knew these men. He had known them his whole life. Why was it he was questioning their loyalty now?

  Perhaps it was because Clieous had been his most trusted supporter and loyal friend, and now Ivan had betrayed him.