Baron of Blood (Dawning Era Saga)

by C. N. Faust

  The sun was setting. It was getting cold. Charon was shaking like a leaf. If he didn’t get somewhere warm soon, he was going to die. They would find him the next morning, a lone, starved, impoverished body, crumpled on the corner of their street like a pile of dirty rags. If the sight offended, one of the street officials or maybe a local nobleman would turn up their nose and order him swept away. Then they would throw him into the sewer, where his body would be carried away to the sea never to be heard from or seen again. It was absolutely depressing.

  The nearest tavern was right across the street. Charon stared at it longingly, trying to remember if he had haunted this one recently or not. Had he even been to this side of town before? Probably. Would the owner remember him? More than likely not. Barkeepers had a habit of forgetting faces like his, which were common enough in the streets. It was a habit that had often worked to his advantage. Even if they wouldn’t serve him... it was relief from the cold.

  Charon closed his eyes, willing himself to move. Stiffly, he wrapped his fingers around the handle of his pack and pulled it up into his lap. He used his free hand to brace himself against the ice-coated curve of ground and pushed himself to his feet. He swayed at first, and held out his arms, screwing his eyes shut and bracing himself for the impact. He locked his knees, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe, so thick was the cold air and so rapid was the pace of his racing heart. The impact didn’t come. He regained his balance, only slightly woozy, and slung the pack over his shoulder. He was ready to conquer the world.

  Charon took his first shuffling step towards the tavern. The snow filled up the holes in his shoes again, and he cursed, trying to shake it out. Despite the fact that he could no longer feel his toes, it was still a mild irritant, and he was all the more eager to reach indoors because of it.

  It wasn’t distracting enough, however, for him to not realize that he was being followed.

  He could make out two shadows in the distance – perhaps halfway down the road from where he was. They walked at a steady pace, covering a fair amount of ground with long, even strides. In minutes they would have been right on top of him. And they were headed straight for him, too.

  Charon licked his lips, ducking his head and trying to appear as inconspicuous as possible. Perhaps they were just trying to make curfew. Perhaps they would end up brushing right past him-

  They were closer now, and the hoods of their long black cloaks would pulled up over their heads so he could not make out their faces. They looked like two grim angels of death, swooping down to claim his soul at last. He took a step back, cursing again as his ankle turned and threatened to give entirely to a patch of ice. He stumbled a pace, and when he glanced over his shoulder, the two approaching figures had nearly reached him. He could make out their pale, grim faces underneath the hoods, now. They were looking straight at him.

  Charon didn’t need anything more. He took off running for the tavern, ignoring his occasional stumbles and falls. He didn’t stop until he had reached the wooden building, and closed the door behind him.

  The tavern was warm and inviting on the inside. The heat immediately settled in, warming Charon to the very bones. He purred in delight and slipped his cowl away from his head, shaking freezing droplets of water and snowflakes from his gold hair. The barkeeper was already giving him dirty looks, but he chose to ignore them. He thought only momentarily about the two men outside, and a shiver raced down his spine, but did not linger. He shoved this thought into the back of his mind and headed straight for a corner of the tavern where he could remain out of sight and out of mind.

  The barkeeper turned away with one last suspicious look, and Charon sighed in relief. He located a cozy corner, right next to the fireplace, and settled down in the uncomfortable wooden chair. He threw his legs up on the table, dropping his pack onto the floor, and stretched, sighing contentedly. He loved the warmth. It was almost enough for him to shed his outer layer of clothing. He might have, if he was more than twenty percent convinced that he would get it back. As it stood, he daren’t risk it.

  A barmaid walked up to him, as voluptuous as she was tall, with generous round breasts and an equally rounded ass – her entire body was perfectly proportioned to his liking. Charon smiled faintly as a mental image suddenly appeared, of his hands exploring those wondrous curves and squeezing them until they ached. He had no clue what her face looked like, he was too busy staring at those breasts, and the round pointed nipples as they strained against the fabric of her chemise.

  “Can I get you anything?” she snapped, with the air of a person who had asked that question one too many times in her life.

  “Hm?” Charon glanced up, but only briefly, and then his gaze fell back into its original position. “Yes, mead, please. Cold.”

  She snorted, and walked off, her curved hips swaying with every rise and fall of her steps. Charon crossed his legs, feeling his groin shooting off like an arrow and doing his best to hide it. It was embarrassing, to say the least. Best to allow it time to calm down, just in case he had to stand up for any reason. First step, stop thinking about her breasts…

  She brought the mead back to him a little while later, slamming the mug down so that the amber liquid sloshed over the side, spilling onto her hand. He wanted to grab her hand suck it off her fingers, but restrained himself. He watched her walk away, and quickly grabbed the mug. The mead was sweet and cool. Not ideal for freezing weather, but exactly what he wanted. He felt his body begin to warm up immediately simply from the drink. Idly, he wondered how he was going to be expected to pay for it, and then realized he didn’t care. Quickly, he swallowed another large mouthful, sloshing it around in his mouth to savor it before doing so.

  The door opened, and two more men stepped in, trailing bitter winter breeze. Charon didn’t think anything of it, at first. They walked up to the counter and had a talk with the barmaid, who looked up from her cleaning long enough to point in Charon’s direction. The two men rotated on the spot, and he could see their ghoulish white faces.

  They were the two men that had been following him in the street.

  His mead stuck in his throat. Charon choked, and observed with dread as the two men started gliding their way towards him. He glanced around wildly, searching for an escape, and realized that he couldn’t make a run for it without drawing some degree of attention.

  Damn, damn, damn.

  Charon slid his legs off of the table and jumped to his feet, swaying as the blood rushed to his head and temporarily blinded him. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, and when he focused again, he saw the two men were almost upon him. In just a few moments, they would have him…

  He decided too late to run for it. He took off, but only made it a few meters before one of them grabbed him by the arm, twisting it painfully behind his back, and shoved him facedown onto a table. He winced as they swept him over the surface, and he heard glasses break and tin clatter against the floor. He heard the barkeeper shout and he saw from the corner of his eye that some of the guests had moved, but others appeared unperturbed. Charon writhed and twisted in the stranger’s grip, but it did not relent. It grabbed him by the hair with his free hand and pulled his head back, bowing his neck painfully and exposing his throat. It wasn’t long before he felt a thin, cold steel edge press against the skin of his neck. His jugular throbbed painfully against it, as if any moment it would burst.

  “We must speak with you,” a hissing voice spoke.

  “No kidding,” Charon gasped, barely daring to speak. He was afraid if he talked too much, the knife would slice open his throat.

  “Come with us,” a voice similar to the first replied. “We don’t want any trouble. We wish to do business.”

  Business, that sounded like bad news from the moment he heard it. Charon didn’t dare squirm, but he just wanted these men to let him go!

  “Fine, fine,” he said, trying to keep a stone face. “Let’s talk. Over beer, like men.”

  “Outside,” the first voice slithered ov
er his skin like oil, and he recoiled at the sound of it. The pressure was relieved from his throat almost simultaneously as the two hands holding him released him. Charon’s hands went to his neck and he sighed, but almost immediately he felt an iron hand grab his shoulder. He was being propelled out of the door, away from warmth and safety, and into the cold, dark streets.

  The men shoved him up against the tavern wall, and the knife was again pressed to his throat. Charon hissed at the awkward angle his head was forced into, so he could not see their faces, but he could feel their eyes boring straight into him.

  “What do you want?” he asked hoarsely, struggling in their grip.

  “We have a business proposition for you,” the first voice said. “From the king.”

  “The king?” Charon’s eyes widened. “What could the king possibly want with-?” his words were choked off when one of the strangers squeezed his throat even harder.

  “Do not speak, only listen,” the second one hissed. “We are here to tell you-“

  A clattering of hooves against cobblestoned street. Charon bit his lip, wanting to cry out for help but fearing what might be done to him. Someone was clearly approaching, but who they were, or why they would care was beyond him.

  The hooves came to a halt. Charon dared to hope.

  “Boy, are you all right?”

  Charon looked up, barely having time to register where he was. He was on the curb, sitting, his hands and face numb with the biting cold. His pack rested by his feet, the worn leather dusted by a light coat of newly fallen snow. The two men were gone, as if they had never existed.

  Something wasn’t right. He hadn’t been on the curb; he had been up against the wall, and the men… and the knife…

  He glanced past the carriage. There was nothing across the street but a building that had been reduced to utter shambles. The windows were broken in, and the door was hanging on only one hinge, flapping ominously in the breeze like the peeled back skin of a wound.

  But that was impossible!

  “I asked if you were all right,” the voice from the carriage said. Charon remembered himself and looked back into the carriage, squinting to make out the shape in the utter darkness.

  “Yes, sir,” he whispered, lying through his chattering teeth. “I’m fine. Just fine.”

  Where the hells had the tavern gone?

  “You are blue with cold,” the door to the carriage opened, and Charon caught the faint scent of sandalwood. “Get in.”

  Charon obeyed without hesitation. He threw his pack inside, hoping it didn’t hit anyone, and jumped into the carriage with agonizing slowness, pulling the door closed behind him.

  “Thank you,” he breathed, leaning back against the hard wooden seat and trying to catch his breath. The nobleman across from him was still a dark shape, but he nodded, and tapped against the side of the carriage. It jerked into motion, and Charon felt his head jam against the wood. He groaned, but didn’t complain. The nobleman didn’t budge. He was used to it.

  Charon shifted in his seat, trying to get comfortable. He had never known a nobleman to have wooden seats instead of padded. Maybe this one was into self-punishment.

  “Comfortable,” he lied, just to fill the awkward silence.

  “Do you have a name?” the nobleman asked.

  “Charon,” Charon replied immediately. He hesitated on sharing his surname, but decided to keep that one to himself. At least for now. “You, sir? If I may be so bold as to ask.”

  “Cavalla,” the nobleman replied, without hesitation as if the information were of no great importance. “Baron Ezbon Cavalla.”

  “Oh,” Charon’s voice involuntarily shrank. Everyone in Drakkian Province knew the name of Cavalla, it was one of the three most powerful baronies in the Province. And they had just recently declared war on the king himself.

  “Do you have family?” Ezbon glanced out the window disinterestedly.

  “No,” Charon replied. Another lie. He swallowed hard. If he was lucky, this fellow wasn’t a mind-reader. “I have no one.”

  “I see,” Ezbon fell silent after that. It was a shame, too. Charon found he liked this lord’s voice. It was soft, but dark, and had weight to it. Every word he spoke seemed to be weighed and measured carefully, and so his sentences meant everything they needed to in as few words as possible.

  The carriage ride was long and tiring. Charon caught himself dropping off to sleep every now and again. Every time he closed his eyes, however, sooner or later the men with ghoulish white faces would appear, and he would be startled awake. His frequent bouts of sleeping and waking did not seem to disturb his lordship, however. Ezbon sat quietly on his side of the carriage, staring out the window, as if the need for sleep did not even affect him.

  Charon finally managed to glean perhaps twenty minutes of sleep in what felt like a five hour carriage ride. When he opened his bleary eyes once more, the sky was turning shades of rose pink, and the carriage was slowing its pace.

  The coachman came and opened the door. Charon seriously doubted his ability to stand, but managed it anyway, hopping out of the carriage door and nearly collapsing where he landed. Ezbon followed him closely, and in the light of the dawn, his strange but compelling handsomeness was bathed in a soft, romantic glow.

  Charon tore his eyes away, and shouldered his leather pack.

  “Markus,” Ezbon said quietly, his voice carrying a thread of weariness. “Show the boy to a room. Any room. Make certain he is comfortable. If you need anything,” here, he turned to Charon. “Ring the bell. A servant shall retrieve it for you.”

  “Thank you,” Charon whispered, too tired to speak any louder. Any octave higher might have shattered his eardrums. He just wanted quiet, and sleep. And warmth. And – maybe later – food.

  Ezbon nodded, and dismissed him with a short wave. The man whom Charon could only assume was Markus beckoned for him to follow, and started off in one direction. Charon followed, feeling as if the weight of the world was dragging on his heels. The light pack on his shoulder felt like it had been filled with boulders.

  All he wanted was bed. Bed, bed, bed.

  He found bed, or rather, bed found him. He didn’t even remember how he got there. All he remembered was collapsing against the soft down mattress and the heaps of warm, silky furs. And then sleep rendered him dead to the world.

  Part II

  122 B.T.T.

  Chapter One

  Lambs to the slaughter, Ezbon thought as he glanced outside of his window. How freely their hot blood flows.

  He had been watching the spectacle all morning, sitting in a wooden chair underneath the shelter of a makeshift pavilion in his palace courtyard. He sat swathed in rich furs, sipping mulled wine and picking at a loaf of crumble bread. He marveled at the scores of young men who came pouring into the courtyard in droves, eager and willing to serve in a war they knew nothing about. These were men who had heard their grandfathers’ tales of glorious battles and heroic deeds, and who now wanted their turn. They didn’t have the faintest idea of what a war – a real war – entailed. Ezbon stroked his chin unhappily. He estimated that for every three he saw, one might actually survive to tell their grandchildren.

  These were poor men, not organized soldiers. These were farmers, blacksmiths, and bakers. These were shoemakers, teachers, and fisherman. They knew nothing other than their trade. A blacksmith could temper iron, but could he wield a sword? Could he cleave his brother’s skull? Could the man who knew nothing other than baking bread and meat pies have the stomach for carnage, as it exploded from a man’s ruined chest? The horrors of war these men had never seen. If the cold didn’t get to them, if the spoiled food, the disease, and the infections didn’t get them first, then the horrors would. The nightmares would claim their minds and reduce them to madness. They would go throughout life hollow, haunted by the images of clashing with an army composed of men who had only just yesterday been their brothers.

  And yet they came. Dozens, hundreds – all re
ady to sign that little piece of paper that promised them food, clothing, and steady wages. All of them signing away their very lives with the simplest stroke of a pen. Most couldn’t even spell their own names and just signed with an x. One of the boys, Ezbon remembered, had been particularly proud that he could spell out his entire name without a single mistake. Another had been frustrated, because he couldn’t remember how to spell his whole name, and had just initialed it JC.

  There was a moment of grim hilarity as Ezbon imagined himself reading the name JC off a paper, listing off the dead.

  They would die, they would all die. Drakkian Province was going to be dead. “Thank you, Ivan,” he snarled to no one in particular, cursing his friend again for such stupidity.

  The clerk that was taking all of the names seemed largely overwhelmed, but Ezbon wasn’t going to move to help him. The men were pushing each other, cutting through the line, grabbing bread and apples from the maidservants who were handing them out. They pinched round asses, soft sides, and caressed pretty cheeks and hair. Children had begun to appear, holding baskets of tattered cloth and ribbon. “War banners”, they had been nicknamed. They were in the colors of red and black – Clieous family colors. The whole spectacle had come to resemble a sort of parody of a market day or festival. And yet the men still pushed and shoved. Let me be the first to sign away my soul – no, me! – Here, have my heart, take it, take it! I don’t want it – Take my life, my family needs bread – Have it all, soul, heart, life, freedom – we just want bread- let me be the first – no, I! – Let me-