Baron of Blood (Dawning Era Saga)

by C. N. Faust

  Ezbon closed his eyes and stood to shut the flap to the pavilion, closing off the scene. He couldn’t look anymore. Such a reckless waste of human life. It could be done so much better, so much more diplomatically … but bloodshed was the only language either Sitharus or Ivan spoke. Blood had to be spilled before either would listen to reason. Corpses had to pile up. It was ridiculous, pigheaded, and stupid.

  Finishing his mulled wine, Ezbon set the goblet down and plucked another one of the crumbling pieces of sweet bread and popped it into this mouth. He chewed on it thoughtfully, resting his hand on the soft leather cover of his poetry book. He longed for nothing more than to read it. He wanted to sink into a chair, and shut out the rest of the world by submerging into the world of Clapheus that existed between powdered vellum pages.

  The pavilion flap opened once more, and Ezbon turned to face the door, ready to bark at whoever had opened it. His words stopped dead in his throat when he saw Charon duck through the low makeshift doorway, curls gleaming like spun gold in the sunlight. Ezbon’s lips twisted and he tapped his nails against the cover of the book, waiting. The boy had been with him for almost an entire month – and Ezbon had seen barely head or tail of him. The boy who called himself Charon was free to leave, of course, whenever he so wished. But he chose to stay with Ezbon. It was something of a comfort, for other than the servants, Ezbon didn’t have much family left. The castle had been strangely empty since the years of his brother’s death. Having never married, and with no desire to possess children, Ezbon had found himself longing to feel alive once more. This boy helped, a little. He appeared at dinner, if Ezbon wasn’t engaged in something more important, and he gave the entire place an air of being occupied once more. For this reason, and this reason only, Ezbon told himself, did he keep the boy around.

  “Good morning,” Charon said brightly, tipping the woolen cap that he had discarded his cowl for. “You look frightfully busy.”

  “I am,” Ezbon grunted, and offered him some sweet bread. “Or should I say – Arop is. He’s been out at that desk all morning.”

  “He must be damnably cold,” Charon said, accepting the offer of the bread.

  “If he doesn’t catch his death, he shall be in bed for at least a week after this,” Ezbon agreed.

  Charon chewed on his bread thoughtfully as he again pulled back the pavilion flap, glancing outside at the bustle of activity that was mind boggling even to him. It was amazing to him that they were getting so many men this early. “Azrael’s eyes, you don’t even have to start a draft, do you?”

  “We will,” Ezbon said, pouring for himself another goblet of mulled wine. “This is just the beginning. I’m certainly we’ve only had a few hundred men from this village sign up. We’re going to need more than that to win a war.”

  “I see,” Charon searched the crowd for any familiar faces. He picked out a few, but they melted away into the throng as quickly as they appeared. “Gods, they make me feel like such a coward. I don’t want to go to war.”

  “None of us do,” Ezbon assured him, quietly. “But these are men who have never seen a war for themselves. They have only heard their grandfathers and fathers speak of wars that are past.”

  “My father died in a war,” Charon continued conversationally, and giving Ezbon a sideways glance.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Ezbon replied, remembering briefly that Nicholas’ father had also died in a war several years ago. It had been a small one, it hadn’t lasted even an entire year, but many still died.

  Charon shrugged. “My mother said he deserved it,” he flashed a fond smile. “But I think that was her way of choking off grief.”

  “We all have our own methods,” Ezbon said, moving to stand beside Charon and handing him a goblet. Charon accepted with his thanks, and drained the thing in one long swallow.

  As the sun was rising, the courtyard was becoming even more flooded. After signing their names, some of the men lingered, striking up enthusiastic conversation with one another. Some of Ezbon’s personal soldiers had appeared with sticks to drive them away like straying cattle. One man tripped on a manic chicken and landed face first into a rain barrel. Ezbon groaned.

  “Are you certain you want these men in your infantry?” Charon asked, suppressing a dry chuckle.

  “They are arrow fodder,” Ezbon replied, though he hated the term. “They are here to wear leather armor, eat spoiled meat, and hold off the enemy long enough to keep most of the real soldiers from being killed.”

  “That’s terrible,” Charon said.

  “Yes,” Ezbon agreed. “It is.”

  “But that’s war, I suppose,” Charon sighed. “I suppose I’ll eventually have to sign on too, just like everybody else. But I don’t want to, you see, I’m terrified of death. I always shake with the thought of dying in some particularly gory way. I shudder when I remember my father died choking on his own blood. They say he cursed his god and squealed like a stuck pig, but,” he added thoughtfully. “That might have been an enemy recount.”

  For the most fleeting of seconds, Ezbon found himself wondering who Charon’s father had been, and why he had been important enough for someone to bother recounting his dead.

  “If you’re a good fighter, maybe you will survive,” Ezbon said.

  Charon laughed. “If I dodge arrows and duck under legs, maybe! I’m not a fighter, it’s not in my blood. If a draft emerges, I’m afraid I will have to run. I’ll reappear a few year’s later and start over, perhaps with a farm somewhere. That would be nice. My mother’s family owned a farm, once, before they had to sell it in order to pay taxes.” He sighed. “That’s what this revolution is for, isn’t it? So things like that don’t happen anymore.”

  No, Ezbon thought. This is happening because two men can’t settle their differences and coexist.

  He became wrapped in his thoughts. If Charon noticed, he didn’t remark on it. He just waited patiently for Ezbon to respond, and became engrossed in the jostle and life of the crowd that was thriving in front of him. They were like ants, crawling in their numbers over a piece of prime meat that had fallen from a table. They resembled such a black, crawling mass. It sent shivers of revulsion down his spine.

  “Oh!” Charon’s sudden startling revelation shattered the peace of Ezbon’s reverie. “I never did get to thank you properly for what you did.”

  “What I –?” Ezbon tried to recall what he might have done that was even remotely worthy of note.

  “Yes,” Charon turned to face him, his large blue suede eyes glancing up at the taller man with spirited innocence. “For helping me the other day.”

  “Oh,” Ezbon shook his head. “No need. It wasn’t anything spectacular. You’re not… beholden to me in any way. You are free to leave whenever you please. I just thought you might like a place to stay for the night. That is all.”

  “Oh?” Charon pushed himself up on his toes, so that they were almost eye level. Ezbon didn’t look uncomfortable, but his facial expression was otherwise utterly impenetrable. Charon stared into those fathomless eyes, wondering what emotions lie behind them. “But I want to be.”

  “Want to be …?”

  “Beholden to you,” Charon said, and as he inched a little closer, Ezbon didn’t move. “It makes things so much more interesting.”

  “Is that so?” Ezbon’s soft voice was no more than a whisper.

  “Yes,” Charon muttered. He lowered his eyelids, and leaned forward. Their lips hovered within inches of each other; Ezbon could feel Charon’s hot breath against his skin.

  And then in a moment, they were pulled apart by some bizarre force of nature. Shouts were coming from the courtyard, followed by a piercing scream. Snarling, Ezbon burst out of his pavilion. The courtyard was in chaos. A fight had broken out for what had appeared to be no real cause, and was in full swing in a matter of minutes. Chickens clucked angrily, flapping their wings manically as they tried to avoid being stepped on or crushed. Children screamed and got out of the way, while s
ome actually attempted to join in on the brawl. The clerk was distressing over a pile of papers and baskets that had rolled off of his desk and now fluttered around the ruins of the smashed wooden splinters. A circle had formed around the fighters, who were tumbling in the dust, so covered in dirt that by now you could hardly see their faces. They bit and kicked, growled and cursed. Some of the guards had tried to rush to break it up, but one of them had gotten a bloody broken nose for it. Another was doubled over with a crude blade sticking out of his stomach, blood streaming freely from the wound.

  Charon turned to watch the fight with a sort of mild but bored interest. He had seen more fights than he could count in his days, and they all had more or less the same outcome. But one thing was certain – and they were always interesting to watch. At the very least, a good brawl was usually a break from the doldrums of existence.

  Ezbon was not so amused. He stalked right towards the middle of the courtyard, until he was practically in the middle of the throng, and he stood there with his arms hanging at his sides, his fists clenched and dripping blood from where his nails had dug into his palms.

  “Enough!” his gentle voice rose to startling heights, and carried across the entire courtyard in a thunderous boom. It was dark enough, powerful enough that the brawl halted then and there. A heavy blanket of silence draped itself over the crowd, and they all turned to face him. He stood in the ankle deep snow, his silvery wolf’s pelt cloak draped over his shoulders, his iron gray hair tucked behind his ears and away from his face. His mouth was set in a straight line and he folded his arms over his chest, his brow furrowing dangerously.

  “Is it not enough that you will fight another man’s war, must you start one amongst yourselves?” his voice had dropped back down to its accustomed lows, but it still carried. Every last one of them could hear and understand him. “We are all men here, not children! We are not cocks in a cage fight!” his glower swept like a sickle over the crowd, slicing cleanly through the spirit of dissent and chaos. He walked right over to where the clerk was on his knees, muttering and gathering up his things, and grabbed one of the papers, thrusting it high into the air for all to see.

  “You have all signed this!” he exclaimed. “You are all my men now. You are soldiers under one banner. Each man standing next to you is now your brother, and you are going to risk your life for him. Whatever the cost.” He released a slow, hissing breath through his teeth. The men were staring at him, enraptured with this speech, blood dripping from broken noses and bloody gouges. “You are under my command now. This very paper grants me the right to all your souls. Well this is my first command! You will not fight amongst yourselves, do you understand me? For any reason whatsoever. Never again.” He released the paper, and the discombobulated clerk snatched it from the air. “The second command I give is this – clean up this mess, and go home. Go back to your wives and children. Though I pray to the gods that none of you have any!” and with that, he spun on his heel and stalked back towards the castle. There would be no more enlisting that day.

  Charon sighed and watched the handsome baron’s retreating figure. For the short time that he had been at Castle Cavalla, the baron had remained always a mystery, his motives for Charon’s rescue unclear. But he was handsome, in a common sort of way, and the aura of mystery only added to his merits. He was dark, and Charon liked that. He was an enigma – what little personality he had let slip on the few occasions that Charon had actually spoken to him revealed a more complex center, and behind the stone façade lay a deeply troubled man. Charon wanted nothing more than to peel away the layers until that tender center had been revealed to him. He liked layers.

  A few moments ago, what seemed like an eternity now, Charon had felt the closest he had been to that center yet. He could feel it, pulsing beneath those inviting lips. Full of promise and passion…

  He shivered with the memory. He was determined to get what he had missed.

  Whistling, Charon stuck his hands into the loose flaps of his jerkin and went walking in the opposite direction.

  Chapter Two

  Ezbon burst into his chambers, irritably brushing aside the flustered servants as they scattered to get out of his way. Once the room was emptied, he slammed the painted doors shut, sliding the iron bolt into place. The world was shut out. The insanity that had already become Drakkian Province was safe behind a locked door. Angrily, Ezbon stalked to the grand fireplace, where a fire was blazing merrily in the very center. The iron poker rested against the delicately carved stone, wicked and black as ashes. He grabbed it by the handle, thrusting it into the middle of the logs and watching with a grim satisfaction as they burst into a shower of sparks and embers.

  His fury had mostly passed, but he couldn’t get over his annoyance. As he had realized in the courtyard, it suddenly didn’t matter who was to blame for the war. It was happening now, whether or not he liked it, and he was unmistakably a part of it. And not only that – but he was a big part. He held the lives of thousands of men in his hand, who had voluntarily lay down their lives at his feet. The idea was repulsive to him. He was the second son of a powerful baron – he had been taught philosophy and religion. They had destined for him to become a priest. It hadn’t been in their plan for his brother to die; he hadn’t been educated in bloodthirsty ambition. For a moment, he wondered what his brother Alemnec would do if he were still alive. He probably would have jumped into the thing from the start. He would have racked up thousands in war debts and not have been able to pay a single dera of them when they came back to bite. He would have gambled and whored his way through, and maybe, maybe if they had been lucky they would all be begging on the streets. Maybe it had been in Azrael’s divine plan all along to run a steel knife through his stomach, Ezbon thought dryly. And for the first time in recalling the incident – he felt glad.

  But none of that was important now. It didn’t matter what Alemnec would have done – he was dead, and there wasn’t any changing that. Ezbon had the barony now. For better or for worse – he was to keep the family honor and prestige in tact. And come the seven hells or high water, he would do exactly that.

  He wished he hadn’t exploded in the courtyard. Perhaps that had been uncalled for. He was certain that the rabble would forgive him, even forget by the time they had reached their respective homes. The clerk was probably even relieved that it wasn’t him who had to break up the fighting.

  Ezbon collapsed onto his bed, sighing and closing his eyes and he felt the swan’s down comforter and heavy furs work to swallow him whole. He wished they could swallow him, and just carry him away to someplace where he wouldn’t have to think about other people’s problems.

  How wonderful that would be.

  There was a knock on the door, interrupting his thoughts. Ezbon sighed and rolled over onto his side, wondering if he should get up and answer it himself or if he should just allow the intruder to walk right on in.

  “Come in,” he sighed, waving vaguely though he knew they could not see.

  A servant poked her head in, smiling prettily from behind her greasy brown hair that had fallen in all different directions from its braid. “Forgive me for disturbing you, my lord,” she began in a thick Northern accent. “But The Lord of State is here to see you, and he says it’s important.”

  “The Lord of State … the Lord of State…” Ezbon tried to close his eyes to remember. Then he opened them as the revelation hit him. “Aha, Remphan. Go ahead, Chloe, send him in.”

  The servant girl vanished, and Ezbon oozed out of bed, smoothing the wrinkles out of his tunic. The Lord of State was no more than Lord Remphan Orchellio, one of Ezbon’s lifelong friends who had been appointed to the position by Ivan when the war had officially been declared. Ezbon had been secretly pleased with the choice. For he liked Remphan, and he felt that they understood each other well. Remphan would see his side where Ivan would not, and at the very least give Ezbon the feeling of having some form of leverage over the other two barons.

  Rem
phan ducked into the room, his feathered cap tucked under his arm like a soldier’s helmet as he bowed deeply to Ezbon. He was a handsome man, tall and sturdy, not too thin, but by no means a thick man. His skin was the pale porcelain white that seemed to favor most of Dragoloth’s native population, but he had tried so desperately to get it to darken, and it would not. He had a shock of thick mink brown hair that hung to his waist in an intricate braid. A gift from his mother, he always claimed. His eyes were piercing gold, with flecks of warm cinnamon sprinkled into the mixture. One of his eyes, of course, was missing. Ezbon hadn’t been around to see it happen, but Remphan was fond of recounting the tale over dinner or at numbers feasts. His eye had been taken by a dragon, which had gouged it right out with one evil talon. The beast, of course, he had slain. Singlehandedly, he claimed, and with one eye running in a white and red mess down his face. He had it mounted on the wall over his fireplace to prove it. But the eye was lost to him. In its place, he wore a strip of fine black silk that tucked itself behind his ear and tied around his head.

  Remphan straightened, and flashed Ezbon a tight-lipped smile. “Good to see you again, Ezbon.”

  “Good to see you, and none of these formalities, we know each other too well for that.” Ezbon embraced him, and Remphan returned the gesture. After greetings had been exchanged, Ezbon gestured for his friend to be seated. Remphan sank into the chair closes to the fireplace and sighed contentedly, adjusting the silk more comfortably around his head.

  “Lord of State,” he flashed a grin. “A lofty title, isn’t it? I wonder what your friend Ivan was thinking when he gave it to me.”

  “He certainly wasn’t thinking much,” Ezbon said, enjoying the banter as he pulled a decanter of plum wine from his desk. “He obviously doesn’t know that you have enough trouble running a chicken coup, much less a rebellion.”