by C. N. Faust
“You don’t expect me to live in your head for years without knowing your weakest point,” the mage smirked, and didn’t stop.
“Why are you doing this? I did as you asked – what more do you want?” Charon was perilously close to tears. He struggled in vain to slip away from the mage’s grasp, but that only made the torture worse.
“Your brother,” Amnas spoke in his cryptic way.
“What about him?” Charon gasped.
“He isn’t faring well. But this isn’t really about him. It concerns you more.” Amnas leaned forward. “You,” he hissed. “Will be the next Baron Ercole.”
“Me?” Charon looked at him. “How – what? Do you even know what you’re talking about? I can never be the next baron. Nicholas has children now, and his son will be heir…”
“Do not question my sight!” Amnas pressed the knife closer, almost breaking the skin. “I have seen the future of Ercole, and you are in it.”
“To hell with your sight – it’s all nonsense, and I wouldn’t want the barony if it was handed to me on a platter!”
“Of course you would,” Amnas smirked. “Any man would.”
“No!” Charon shouted, closing his eyes, refusing to look. “No, no, Nicholas would never make me baron!”
“He doesn’t have to!” Amnas laughed, dropping the knife and raking his fingernails down Charon’s chest. His very touch burned like ice. “Fate has made you baron, boy, whether your brother likes it or not.”
Amnas’ harsh laughter grated against his eardrums. Charon’s hands flew to cover his ears.
“No,” he muttered. “No-“
“Charon?” Ezbon’s asked sleepily, his hand landing on Charon’s stomach.
Charon opened his eyes and was greeted with absolute blackness. Whatever phantom light had accompanied Amnas was gone along with the mage.
“What is it?” Ezbon asked.
“Nothing,” Charon sighed. “Nothing, my love, just another dream.”
Ezbon nodded. He gathered Charon in his arms and held the boy close to his chest. Charon buried his face in Ezbon’s neck, breathing deeply. He felt safe.
Amnas’ words still disturbed him. Fate has made you baron… what the hells was that even supposed to mean?
Perhaps he was just tired. He would think more on it tomorrow.
Safe in his protector’s arms, Charon drifted off to sleep.
Chapter Eight
It was nearly noon before the dragons arrived.
Ezbon was standing outside, having a talk with one of the garrison soldiers. Charon was nearby, sitting on the curb and playing with a tiny dagger. Remphan was inside, having just woken up and now going through the process of his morning ablutions. Ivan had already made the rounds through midday meal and was now patrolling the city if for no other reason than to avoid Ezbon.
The sun was at its highest point in the sky, but the light was all it was good for. It was still unbearably cold.
Ezbon only looked up when a shadow fell over the city. He supposed it was just a passing cloud at first, but it lingered much longer than it should have. The wind had started to pick up, and then people began screaming.
The dragons filled the sky like ships of war on an open sea. There were dozens of them, he couldn’t quite count how many because they kept moving. They were immense – as long as six men at the very least, with wingspans as wide as they were tall. On their backs were men armed to the teeth and riding astride leather saddles. They ducked and dove through the air, at first with little affect and very much a display of aerial beauty. But then one of the dragons turned the side, flying low, and its claws went right through a tall stone building, sending it scattering in fragments.
A piercing scream rent through the air. A particularly large dragon threw its head back, swinging it from side to side before opening its massive jaws and releasing a column of flames into the air.
Ezbon looked sharply at Charon. “Go inside!” he yelled, and drew his sword.
Charon looked at him like he was crazy. “Are you mad?”
“GO INSIDE! I will not be argued with!” Ezbon grabbed Charon by the shoulder and propelled him towards the inn, but did not have time to follow through with the action. He cursed, even though he was pleased to see that the troops that were his were already assembling in the streets. No doubt with this new development the troops that were Sitharus’ would come crawling out of the woodwork and another battle would begin.
Ezbon screamed Remphan’s name, but it was lost in the din. Remphan ran into the streets anyway, only half-dressed, his sword at his side.
“What the hell is this?” he asked, his face and hair still dripping wet.
“Dragons,” Ezbon said dryly.
“No shit,” Remphan snapped, and drew his sword from its scabbard. “Where are Sitharus’ men?”
“No doubt soon in coming. Right now they’re just attacking from the sky, and there’s nothing else we can do, save dodge-“ at that, a fireball crashed into the street next to them, and they scattered.
“Don’t we have anything to shoot at them with?” Remphan wondered aloud, screaming at the top of his lungs.
“Well, if we did, we would be utilizing it, now wouldn’t we?” Ezbon roared back.
A deafening scream came from over their heads, something deeper and more terrifying than they had yet to hear. It shook the very foundation on which they stood, and Ezbon felt his heart fail for a second or two.
They both looked up at exactly the same time.
It was another dragon, but it was far bigger than the ones they had seen so far. It was about the size of a castle, if not bigger, with a wingspan that seemed to blanket the entire city in shadow. Miraculously, there was a rider perched on the monster’s back, but he was fully cloaked, and too high for them to identify. But even that wasn’t what Ezbon found the most terrifying.
Horrifically, the dragon had five twisting, writhing heads.
“Holy father of Azrael!” Remphan swore as Ezbon made a warning sign against evil. “What is that?”
“A dragon,” Ezbon said dryly.
“That isn’t just any damned dragon. It’s certainly not a hen. It’s a bull, that’s for damned sure.” Remphan wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.
Sitharus’ soldiers had already begun to crawl out, as Ezbon had predicted. They clashed with the baron’s troops. Blood stained the streets, running in rivers from the countless corpses that fell to enemy swords. Remphan jumped right into the fray with a nervous whoop, leaving Ezbon to fend for himself.
To Ezbon’s horror, the bull dragon was circling to land. He didn’t know where it thought it was going to put itself, but perhaps its driver was made. He backed away, trying to give himself room and realizing it was futile. He ran into soldiers, cutting them down upon contact. Blood and bone flew as his hand axe buried itself into necks and skulls, but it was impossible to calculate where this monstrosity would land.
Surprisingly, it didn’t. It was as if at the moment it realized its own size. It hovered close to the ground for a moment or two, and then it arched its back. Three of its five heads screamed, and two sent pillars of flame to consume everything in sight. Then the thing shot back up into the sky with a terrific speed.
Ezbon felt a fist come into contact with his jaw. His world spun and he staggered back, clutching his sword and trying to keep his balance.
The man, if it could indeed be called a man, stood in front of him. He had to be at least seven feet tall, his long black cloak slung over his shoulder, exposing his weapons on either side of his hip. His hair, cropped to his ears and the color of pearls, whipped around his face in the breeze. His eyes, a deep twilight blue, were the only spark of personality on his ghoulish white face.
“Who are you?” Ezbon found himself asking, clenching the hilt of his sword in both his hands.
“Does it matter?” he had a deep, rumbling voice. His sword was twice as long as Ezbon’s, and looked a good deal heavier.
“No,” Ezbon sa
id. “You know who I am.”
“Ezbon Cavalla,” the stranger nodded. “I am Malachi.”
The name meant nothing to Ezbon. He lifted his sword, but Malachi did not meet the challenge. Rather, he circled around Ezbon with surprising swiftness considering his height. He waited until he was standing behind the baron before he struck out, his sword almost slicing Ezbon’s in half on first contact.
“They call me the harbinger of death,” Malachi’s voice was a whisper, but Ezbon heard it all the same. He wrenched his sword free and brought it swinging towards Malachi’s legs. Malachi easily slid out of the way, and brought his sword down full-swing towards Ezbon’s head. The swords met mid-air with a clang.
No more words were exchanged between them. Malachi brought his sword down once more, and Ezbon’s sword was sliced clean through. Ezbon dropped his blade, searching immediately for another weapon. All else he had at his disposal was his hand axe and his rapier. He grabbed the hand axe, surprised to see Malachi dispose of his weapon altogether, and spread his hands palms up.
Green iridescent light gathered at the center of Malachi’s palms. He muttered something in a language Ezbon didn’t know and then pulled his palms back towards his chest. He then turned them to face Ezbon, and thrust them forward. For a second, the light had vanished.
Then the light flashed, and Ezbon found himself knocked backwards. The wind escaped his chest with a swift whoosh and he hit the ground hard, his hand axe flying out of his hand. Malachi pressed forward, intending to pursue. Every battle epic that Ezbon had ever read played through his head. He sought them for answers as he fought to draw his rapier. Malachi was advancing quickly. This time, the mage had interlocked his fingers, holding them several inches away from his face. As he slowly drew his fingers apart, vivid green lightning flickered between them, and when his hands had come completely apart, the lightning sizzled through the air headed straight for Ezbon.
Ezbon dodged it, buying himself some time. He fumbled with the laces that held his rapier to his side and finally pulled it free. He gripped it in both hands. He knew he would only have one chance.
Malachi seemed to be preparing for another spell. Ezbon didn’t intend to let him cast it. He took off at a running leap, his sword straight out in front of him, braced against his breastplate. He prayed to Azrael for deliverance.
The sword cut cleanly through Malachi’s mail and leather as if it were nothing. It sliced right through flesh and bone, snapping ribs, stabbing him right through the heart.
Malachi collapsed to the dirt, his teeth rattling with the impact. He swayed for half a second before dropping, stone dead, to the ground.
Ezbon only wanted to be sure. He grabbed a dagger from the mage’s belt and ran it through his throat, burying it deep so that there would be no mistakes.
The five-headed dragon above them screamed, but it wasn’t in anguish. It was in triumph.
Charon knew he would only have this one chance.
Ivan Clieous fought nearby him, struggling to hold his ground against Sitharus’ soldiers. He was as easy a target as Charon could hope for. This was his chance at redemption. All he had to do was drive the dagger through Ivan’s neck and his nightmares would vanish. Just like that.
If only he could bring himself to do it.
He could do it!
Charon stepped forward, his every intention towards murder. He focused all of his hatred, his anger, his humiliation, and his frustration on Ivan Clieous. He thought of what the baron would do if Ezbon died in this battle. Charon would hang, that was definite. He thought about how that baron would like it. Well, wouldn’t it be fine if he died first!
A dreadfully familiar boisterous voice caught his attention, and Charon spun around immediately. Remphan Orchiello was only a foot or two away, engaged in combat with one of Sitharus’ foot soldiers. He had such an idiot grin on his face. Charon felt his temper flare at the very sight of the man. He hated Remphan – he would have given anything to open his throat and bathe in his blood.
The soldier fell, and Remphan crowed. Charon only had a few seconds.
All of the feelings he had been building up for Ivan immediately transferred. Remphan was the target now. Remphan, whom he hated – Remphan who had tortured him!
Gripping his knife, Charon calmly approached the lord, and touched him on the shoulder.
Remphan spun around. “Damn it, Ezbon’s boy, don’t do that! You could get killed.”
Charon only smiled prettily.
“Remphan,” he sighed, and stood up on his toes, kissing him. The lord of state allowed the kiss to even linger before shoving Charon away.
“What is that? I told you, I don’t fuck-“ before he could finish his sentence, Charon’s dagger found its way into his throat, and Remphan choked, spewing blood.
“I know,” Charon said sweetly. “You don’t do boys.” He yanked his dagger out, and Remphan dropped to the ground, dead.
Ivan stood over the corpse of Sitharus’ soldier. It looked to be only a boy. He couldn’t have been older than seventeen. Which, Ivan reflected morosely, was only six years younger than himself.
The dead littered the streets until it began to resemble a mass graveyard more so than a city. The survivors had locked themselves away. The dragons still lingered, circling in the sky like birds of prey. Who knew when they would attack again.
Ezbon knelt beside the body of Remphan Orchiello, reciting a small prayer for his friend’s soul. Ivan wished he knew who had killed the Lord of State. He would very much like to rip out their small intestines.
Charon stood by Ezbon, silent and watchful. He appeared to be lost in his own thoughts. His face was pale, and almost too gaunt now for his large blue eyes. Ivan could have almost felt sorry for him.
At last, Ezbon stood. Charon hugged him tightly and kissed his fingers. Ivan grimaced.
Ezbon walked up to comrade, his eyes sad.
“A lot of death,” he whispered.
“It is regrettable, but necessary.” Ivan said stiffly. “I only wish Nicholas had dragged his lazy ass out here to help. Maybe Remphan wouldn’t have died.”
“Don’t go blaming Nicholas for Remphan’s death, Ivan Clieous.” Ezbon said through clenched teeth. “That is between Remphan and Azrael.”
“I sent a boy to Ercole Castle,” Ivan replied, switching topics.
“To do what?”
“Inform his spoiled mightiness of the events that just transpired.”
“I’m sure anyone could guess,” Ezbon shook his head and glanced around. Half of the city was gone, wiped out in the blink of an eye. Entire houses were no more than greasy piles of black ash. “No league of foot soldiers can inflict this kind of damage.”
Ivan fell quiet, one might could swear he was sulking.
Before long, a little boy, perhaps seven or eight, came running up to them. His eyes were wide and fearful, but then, children always looked like that to Ezbon.
“What is it?” Ezbon asked, not unkindly.
The boy swallowed, his tiny throat convulsing. “My lord,” he spoke in a tiny voice. “Something bad happened at the castle.”
“What is it?” Ivan asked, afraid to know. Ezbon felt his heart stop beating. He could only hope against hope that Nicholas was all right.
“Three people are dead, all killed,” the boy looked like he had seen a ghost. “And not by the soldiers either, sir, they say it was the baron…”
“Nicholas?” Ezbon snapped. “Why would Nicholas kill anybody? Who is dead?”
“I don’t know!” the boy exclaimed, frustrated. “Two ladies, I think, and a man. I don’t know.”
“Oh, gods,” Ezbon looked at Ivan, and his face was pale. “Arceia…?”
“I knew Nicholas hated his wife, but not this much.” Ivan whispered.
“The baron is hurt,” the boy continued, bravely. “They don’t think he’ll make it, sirs. They beg you to come say goodbye before it’s too late.”
“No,” Ezbon’s voice could not
be heard. “No, no, Azrael, please.” He closed his eyes. Charon bit his bottom lip but inched closer to the baron, putting his arms around him.
“We better get over there,” Ivan said. “Who knows how much time we have.”
“On foot?” Ezbon was perilously close to tears. “It will take forever.”
“Horses,” Ivan reassured him. For a moment, he softened. He knew how much Nicholas meant to Ezbon, even if they were no longer together. The Baron Cavalla was still madly in love.
“Horses… right.” Ezbon sniffed, rubbing his face with one gloved hand. “Get some horses. We have to go. Oh, gods, let us get there before he dies!”
Chapter Nine
“Nicholas?”
Nicholas turned his head towards the door, staring listlessly at the man who entered. In the hours since they had found him he had been washed and dressed. The memories of the night before were beginning to fade in his mind, becoming only dark shadows that pricked at him with needles of misery and pain. The only thing he remembered vividly was Arodi’s death. That he was certain he would never, ever forget.
“Ezbon,” it hurt to speak. His voice was raspy and faint.
“Oh, Nicholas…” Ezbon stepped forward into the light of the candles that surrounded Nicholas’ bed. Bathed in the soft gold glow, Ezbon looked very handsome. It erased the lines that worry had cut too early into his face, making him appear young as when they first met. Ezbon thought that Nicholas looked rather like a shell of himself, lying on the bed underneath a heap of covers. His eyes, once fierce and proud and sharp, were dull and glassy and hollow. His cheeks were gaunt, and his vibrant red hair had faded to a dusty auburn. It was nothing of the power Baron Ercole he once knew.
“Don’t,” Nicholas shied away from him, turning to face the other way. He didn’t want Ezbon to see him, not like this. He didn’t want to see the triumph in Cavalla’s eyes. How dare Nicholas leave him for a servant boy – indeed! And now he was getting what he deserved, wasn’t he? He didn’t want to be reminded.
