Baron of Blood (Dawning Era Saga)

by C. N. Faust

  That shame was not one that Sitharus was willing to bear.

  “Gentlemen,” Sitharus began, licking his lips. “Lords of the council… I thank you all for your quick response to my summons, and your attendance. You shall be well rewarded in the future, I can promise you that.”

  “Those of us who deserve to be,” Baron Turtem muttered, glancing at the empty seat beside him. It was a seat reserved for Clieous.

  “Yes,” Sitharus nodded, overhearing him. “And it has been made very clear in the past few days that not all of you is as loyal as I was led to believe.”

  “Your Majesty, if this is a question of mere loyalty, I can assure you that you have nothing to fear from me or my house.” The Baron Pall spoke up, his fingers stroking the webbing of his throat. “We have always been loyal to the crown.”

  The statement was punctuated by a few murmurs of agreement. Sitharus held up his hands for peace.

  “The question is not of loyalty, my lord. You and your fellows have shown me your loyalty even now by simply rising to my call. You are no the traitors, of that I have no doubt.”

  “Then why this meeting?” Baron Anatoli, arguably the youngest member of the assembly, asked.

  “There should be little question of why,” the baron Pall snorted. “We all know why we are here. It is because of this fool war in Drakkian Province. Three barons couldn’t keep their fingers out of what belongs to the king.”

  “They are thieves!” the baron Nicos jumped in, eager to be part of the argument. “And they must be punished. We all know what happens to thieves.” More murmurs of agreement.

  “We cut off their hands,” Baron Pall was ever eager to point out the obvious.

  “And leave them to die! To beg in the streets,” Nicos nodded with some satisfaction.

  “Ivan was always hot-headed, but I never knew he was so foolish.” The baron Turtem shook his head disapprovingly.

  “It surprises me not that it was Ivan who made the first move, but that Cavalla and Ercole followed!” Baron Agust shook his head in amazement. “Surely they have more sense than that. I thought you said Cavalla was educated?”

  “He is,” Turtem said, leaning back in his chair. “He was raised to be a priest. Surely he knows something of books.”

  “His loyalties must be misconstrued,” Baron Agust side. “Unless this is all part of some deeper, clever plot?”

  “I doubt it,” Baron Turtem wrinkled his nose. “It doesn’t seem like these three have a brain to split between them. Besides, I-“

  “My lords!” Sitharus did his best to calm to the assembly. He thrusts his hands into the air and held them there. As if by magic, the barons all fell silent.

  “Why Ivan did it is of no importance now. It is done, and that is all there is to it. But the question begs – how will we stop it?”

  More silence, but it was a shocked, disbelieving quiet.

  “How…? Sitharus,” The baron Turtem gave his younger cousin a longsuffering look. “You have the mightiest army in the empire. You have over forty-seven barons who are willing to throw their hand in to this war, for we know that you are a generous king and we will reap great rewards. Ivan did not like your new laws. He wants things to remain the way they were. I say he is a fool. We all stand to do nothing but gain from these new laws, and I think that it will take little more than three days in Drakkian Province before we have them on their knees.”

  Baron Pall, arguably the oldest man there, nodded with approval. Baron Agust was not so certain.

  “You invaded their city not long ago, no? And yet they still resist. Will they fight until every man of them is dead?”

  “All the better,” Baron Santo Rosendo remarked, and his brother echoed his opinion.

  “They will bend knee to us and surrender eventually, for they have no choice.” Sitharus assured them all. “We have breached the border, and we are not going to be removed. They burned down our bridge, but that is no matter. We still have the pass, and the countryside is littered with my soldiers from Madrigal.”

  “Not to mention,” Turtem suggested, “we can travel by air where they cannot.”

  “An excellent point,” Baron Pall agreed.

  “We have all of this to our advantage, and we will use it.” Sitharus told them. “We will have to move quickly if we wish to get our troops in there at all. The snows are coming faster and heavier and soon the pass will be blocked up. We will send the dragon riders ahead to cut a path through Ivan’s soldiers. At the same time we send out the dragons, we shall send out the men to ride through the pass, and by the time the dragons have finished, my men should do a splendid job of cleaning up. They will have to stay and enforce my order anyway, so there is no need to worry about getting them back over the pass before it closes.”

  “You will have to go through my lands to get to the pass,” Baron Nicos pointed out.

  “We will pay well for the privilege,” Sitharus replied.

  “And you will need supplies,” Baron Pall said. “Food, wine, and clothes, my lands can provide all three.”

  “You will need men,” Turtem looked at his cousin from his right hand seat. “I can give you as many soldiers as you need. I will draft the entire country to help you win this war, cousin.”

  “You will need horses!” Baron Anatoli cried. “Baron Terkel will provide those. I have contact with him. You shall ride to Drakkian Province to claim your victory on the finest of stallions!”

  The offers and gifts and oaths poured in greater volume. Sitharus just sat back and smirked satisfactorily, his job done. He was a bit unnerved that Aetius had not said anything for the entire meeting.

  At last, the enthusiastic talk died down, and Aetius stepped forward. The king’s vizier pulled his hands from his velvet sleeves and produced a long, thin knife. It was beautifully crafted, light as a kiss and deadly. Its blade was as thin as a hair, but Sitharus knew it could be effective.

  “All these words mean nothing without your oaths to back them up.” Aetius announced. He thrust his arm into the air, his sleeve falling down to bare his wrist and his white arm all the way up to the elbow. “Let us take an oath here and now to serve our king with undying allegiance, no matter what he might ask of us. Any man who does not take this oath will be a traitor and a coward. And let him die here!” Aetius brought the knife down and slid it across his skin. At first, there appeared to be no damage. But then the blood began to well up, dark crimson against the white. It pumped freely from the wound, a waterfall.

  “I swear,” the high vizier hissed, “to serve my king as I would serve my god. With all of my heart, my soul, my mind, and my body.” With those words, he passed the knife to Baron Turtem, who accepted it without question. The baron pushed his sleeve up to his shoulder and unlaced his leather greave. It fell to the table with a dull thud, and he drew the knife across his own pale skin.

  “And I,” he said, passing it to the Baron Agust.

  “And I,”

  “And I,”

  “And we!” the twins called when their turn came.

  Once the knife had been passed, Aetius produced a goblet. He held his bleeding wrist over it, allowing a steady stream of blood to fill the bottom of the cup before he passed it on. By the time the cup reached Sitharus, it was teeming with the dark liquid.

  Sitharus stood. He grasped the cup in both hands, careful not to spill a single precious drop. He lifted the goblet into the air, and it was as if the world held its breath.

  “My lords,” he said, his dark voice shaking the foundation of the tower. “With this cup, I accept your allegiance. With this blood, we are bound!” and so saying, he tipped his head back, lowered the cup to his lips, and drank it, every last drop.

  The cries of approval could be heard on every baron’s lips. Sitharus set the drained goblet on the table, his bloody lips curved upwards in a smile as he glanced at Aetius. The high vizier was preoccupied with rolling his sleeve back down. When he looked up, he met the king’s gaze.

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nbsp; “Your Majesty,” he said, tossing his hair and lifting his chin. “I will lead your army over the pass into Drakkian Province. Let me do this thing for you, O my king, let me help you win your victory.”

  Sitharus looked at the barons. They were paying him no heed. They were too animated over the discussion of war.

  Sitharus laughed, and thrust the empty goblet into the air in a mock toast.

  “To you, Aetius!” he exclaimed. “Lead us on to victory!”

  Chapter Three

  It was in the middle of the afternoon, but the bedroom was still dark. The curtains had been drawn because Arodi could not stand the light. How he had wept, and how he had claimed it burned his eyes! Now Nicholas lay curled up next to his love. Arodi shivered in his arms, even though the blankets were heaped on top of him and his skin was slick with sweat. Nicholas was growing increasingly more worried as the days wore on. Whenever Arodi slept, Nicholas slipped away and would kneel beside the bed, all but prostrating himself on the floor. He begged Azrael to spare his lover. He offered up everything he had – his life, his soul, and his worldly possessions. He prayed for the sickness to pass to him. Surely, Azrael would just as easily accept one life over another? But the days grew longer. Azrael did not answer his prayers and Arodi grew sicker by the hour.

  When nothing more could be done, Nicholas would fall to the ground, weeping.

  But he had not been able to pray today. Every time he attempted to move from Arodi’s side those pale, sickly hands would reach out, searching blindly for him. Nicholas found himself crawling back each time, glad to give his lover some small amount of comfort. He slid his arms around Arodi’s thin chest, kissing his burning cheek and caressing his greasy hair. His own supply of tears had been exhausted. His sobs burned unshed in his chest.

  Arodi turned in his sleep, his eyes flitting frantically behind closed lids. He curled his fingers tightly against Nicholas’ chest, like a lost child clinging for protection. He buried his face in the bend of Nicholas’ neck, breathing in the scent of his hair with his short, frantic breaths. His skin was scalding to the touch though he shook like a leaf, his teeth chattering, and his lips blue. Nicholas brought him closer and pulled the blanket around his shoulders, whispering a prayer between dry lips.

  “Please, Azrael, please do not let him die!”

  There was a frantic knock on the heavy wooden door. Arodi moaned and cringed against Nicholas’ chest, as if the sound were too loud. Nicholas hissed angrily, not turning to face the entrance. Let whoever would enter at the peril of his own death.

  The knocks became pounding, and it took the unfortunate several minutes to realize that the door was unlocked. They burst in, then, a page with the mulberry livery of Ezbon Cavalla’s house. Nicholas sat up, gently waiting as Arodi’s head dropped to his lap, then he glared at the page that he could barely make out in the darkness.

  “This had better be damned important,” he snapped.

  “It is, sir, it is!” the page insisted, stepping forward. “Word from my master, sir, the Baron Cavalla! He says that an attempt was made last night on Ivan’s life, and that the king may be after the three of you, sir!”

  “SO?!” Nicholas roared, and Arodi whimpered at the sound of his voice. “I don’t have time for this! March back in to town and you may tell Ezbon that I don’t give a damn!”

  Arodi cowered, burying his face even further into his master’s lap. Nicholas softened almost immediately and stroked his lover’s hair comfortingly. The page took a step back, disconcerted.

  “My lord,” the page whispered, cowed but determined. “My lordship will want to know why.”

  “I’ll tell your lordship why-“ the tears were threatening again. Nicholas paused, choking them back, refusing to be seen this way. “Arodi … Arodi is dying, and there isn’t a damned thing I can do about it. And if Arodi is dead, then we all might as well die! Let us start with Ivan, then! He is the cause of this godsdamned war! This is his fault!” unable to hold back, Nicholas waved irately, gesturing for the servant to go. “Get out! Get out! I will hear no more of it. I will see your face no more! Tell Ezbon I will have nothing more to do with his war! The whole godsdamned thing can go to hell!” he was screaming. Arodi was shaking, and the page was trembling from head to foot. With a quavering bow, the page took of running, not intending to stop until he reached his master again.

  Once the page was gone, Nicholas dissolved into tears, pressing his face against Arodi’s hair and kissing him over and over.

  “Arodi, my Arodi,” he begged, his voice choked with tears. “Don’t die, my love, please, please, please don’t die!”

  “Is it done?” Arceia asked when Elise returned.

  “It is done, and the dose deadly.” Elise said as she picked up her embroidery once more. She did not look up to meet her mistress’ gaze for fear she might do something she may regret. Like punch her in the face.

  “Arodi will be dead within days,” Arceia smiled, entirely with self-satisfaction. She slid her hands over her very round stomach. The babies were due within the next week, and how eager she was for them! Maybe, with Arodi out of the way, Nicholas would give them the attention they deserved.

  “I doubt it will even take that long,” Elise said, intentionally stabbing her finger with the needle and savoring the pain. She deserved that pain, and more for what she did to that child-!

  “You are wonderful,” Arceia cooed. “When these children are born, I shall reward you, properly.”

  Elise pulled the needle from her finger. The blood glistened on the sharp tip.

  “I have as little use for your body as you have for mine,” The maid said to her mistress, glaring. “You only needed me for my anonymity in this castle. And now that my services are useless, will I be disposed of as well?”

  “Why would you even say that?” Arceia asked, as if truly offended that Elise would even ask such as question.

  “I wouldn’t put it past you. Arodi never did anything to you.” It was a circular argument. They had done it many times over.

  “He stole my husband from me,” Arceia snapped.

  “And is that an offense to warrant death?” Elise challenged.

  “It is!”

  “You stole Muriel Orcheillo’s husband, my lady,” Elise hissed through clenched teeth. “The baby that stirs in your belly does not belong to your husband!”

  Arceia’s face turned purple with rage. Her hand flew on its own and struck Elise across the face with an audible smack.

  “Don’t you dare speak to me that way,” Arceia’s voice was dark with rage. “Don’t you dare ever speak to me that way, Elise! I have suffered more than you can imagine! I would never have had a child otherwise!”

  “You are a hypocrite!” Elise screamed at her, throwing her embroidery in her mistress’ face. She stood up, her plain skirts swishing. Her anger granted her a moment of dignity, where she looked as imperious and terrifying as a goddess riled. “You are a liar and bitch, Arceia Ercole! I do not know why I put up with you!”

  “I am all you have!” Arceia screamed at her, fists clenched in fury.

  “I would rather die a thousand deaths than be a part of this any longer!” Elise clenched the needle between her fingers, digging it into her palm. She gasped with the pain as blood dripped from the wound. She deserved it, yes; she deserved it and so much more…

  “That,” Arceia said. “Can be arranged-“ her words trailed off. Elise looked at her just in time to see her mistress collapse.

  Elise caught her before she hit the floor, the needle jamming itself even further in her hand. Elise cried out in pain and held her mistress, brushing her hair away from her face, leaving bloody smears on porcelain skin.

  “A physician!” she screamed at the top of her lungs. Never had the world heard Elise raise her voice quite so loud. “A physician – damn it – I need a doctor! Foolish woman,” her voice dropped back down to its normal levels. “Damn foolish woman!”

  Chapter Four

&nb
sp; The castle buzzed with excitement. The king’s courtyard was the center of all activity. Soldiers drilled, the thunder of their armored feet drowning out the commands on their captain. Servants pushed carts of supplies back and forth, the wooden wheels jolting as they hit the deep ruts in the muddy earth. Slaves ran by, carrying chickens by their feet to the kitchen. The king’s knights – the only five in the empire – paid homage to Azrael on bended knee in the temple. Incense cages were waved over their heads. The high priest muttered a steady, low chant, blessing their swords with a sharp edge and sure aim.

  And at the center of it all was Aetius.

  He stood with his fine boots almost ankle-deep in mud, his hands tucked behind his back as he kept a sure, steady gait. His extraordinary hair, black with threads of gold, was slicked away from his face to expose a sharp, cruel face. He wore efficient but costly armor of boiled dragon hide. The breastplate was black with metal spikes along the outer edges. In the center, the crest of the Matrador family stood proudly in the form of a purple dragon. Only one change had been made. Instead of rearing back on its hind legs, the dragon was crouched over its prey, its powerful jaws clamped down onto the neck of a bleeding red stag. The stag, of course, was the Clieous family symbol. There was no doubt in anyone’s mind who was going to win this war.

  Aetius wove his way through the courtyard, his fine boots slipping on mud and patches of ice. The crowd, noble and slave alike, gave him a wide berth. Most did not know him by face, but they knew him by the large ruby pendant that rested against his chest from the thick gold chain around his neck. It was a symbol of power. They could look on it and know that only the king was higher than he.

  But Sitharus did not scare them as Aetius did.

  The High Vizier had a reputation for cruelty and brutality. Few men abused their power as cunningly as he. He was a favorite of the bards, who had dubbed him “the king’s tongue”. For it was a often a question; did Aetius speak for the king, or did the king speak for Aetius?