by C. N. Faust
“Dragan has been gaining some weight, recently,” Ezbon said, quietly amused. “I no longer wonder why.”
“Keep feeding him like that and his belly will be dragging the ground before you know it!” Remphan replied, eyes sparkling with laughter. Charon blushed.
“I can’t help it,” he said, patting the dog’s silky head. “I am weak.”
Remphan shot Ezbon a snide look. “Indeed.”
Ezbon ignored his friend. “Forgive him; I’m afraid he’s fonder of the brandy than he should be.”
“Are you going to join the army, Charon?” Remphan asked, pointedly ignoring the baron in return.
Charon worried his lip, and shook his head. “I don’t think so. I might, eventually, who knows.” He shrugged.
“Well, there will be a draft. Who knows? Maybe you’ll join sooner than you think!” Remphan took a long drink of his mead.
“A draft?” Charon shot Ezbon a look, silently demanding an answer. Ezbon’s face was completely devoid of expression.
“Going out tomorrow,” Remphan nodded. “Think on it! You will at last get a chance to experience the glory of our fathers! Didn’t your father ever fight in a war?”
“Yes,” Charon said dryly. “And he died. Gruesomely.”
“Oh,” Remphan’s face muscles were stretched taunt, and he fought with his drunken tongue. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“It’s all right, it was a long time ago.” Charon stood up and pushed his chair away from the table. The dog stepped away from him, confusion in its black eyes, but he ignored it. “My lord,” he addressed Ezbon. “May I be excused?”
Ezbon nodded, and Charon exited the dining hall. The servants shut the door behind him with an ominous clang.
“Congratulations,” Ezbon said, standing as well. “You’re an ass.”
“How was I supposed to know his father was dead?” Remphan snapped, following suit. “You could have said something!”
“I didn’t think it was necessary,” Ezbon bit the inside of his cheek. “I will see you tomorrow morning?”
“Bright and early as a cock’s crow,” Remphan saluted him.
“Unless you find a wench to keep you company?” Ezbon asked dryly.
Remphan flashed a catty smile. “Well, yes, that’s always a possibility.”
Both men exited the great dining hall, leaving the servants and the dogs to clean up the mess.
Chapter Three
Dawn had yet to grace the world with its presence when Charon rose from his bed. He was wide awake, although he had no idea why. He didn’t even remember when he had fallen asleep, but he knew it had been late. Yawning, he slithered out of bed; his fur blanket pulled tightly around his shoulders, and stumbled on his way towards the washbasin. He was so grateful for the castle’s enormous fireplaces and the heat that they provided. If there was one thing he hated doing in the mornings, it was breaking ice over washbasins. At least the constant heat kept it warm enough throughout the night that little to no ice really formed.
Dipping his hand into the cold water, Charon splashed it against his face. Shivering, he pulled the blanket even tighter around his shoulders and moved towards the window seat. He could see that the sky was already beginning to lighten, so dawn wasn’t far away. But he was still up earlier than usual. Pushing the thought away, he curled up on the wooden seat and pushed some of his blanket under him to make it more comfortable. The baron really ought to invest in some cloth covering for his seats.
Some guards had gathered in the courtyard with their horses, apparently readying to accompany the baron on his trip into the city. Charon wondered about this draft they were going to issue. How would it work? Would he truly be called into war? He bit his lip, and a bead of blood appeared, sliding its way down his chin. If he got called into war, he wouldn’t go. He couldn’t. He wasn’t brave at all; he didn’t have that sort of constitution. And he didn’t think he could face a battlefield, not after his father…
Maybe the baron would understand. Maybe not. There really was no legal way to dodge a draft. Even if he fled over the border into enemy territory, he would just get captured, and either be sold into slavery or put into the army over there. And that would almost be worse, in a way.
It was as if panic seized him in a sudden paralysis. He couldn’t go to war, he wouldn’t go to war… the only way he could avoid it was to make certain that the baron would be sympathetic to him and see his side. It was now more vital than it ever had been to allow himself to get closer to the baron – and vice versa.
Charon’s breath caught when he thought of Ezbon, and how he had looked last night, in that soft candlelight. He had come up with worse plans before.
Now it was only a matter of getting the dear baron alone. He seemed to never have any time, anymore. And whatever few moments Charon had managed to steal had been brought to an abrupt end. Charon sighed dejectedly and placed his forehead against the window. The night’s rain had frozen on the glass, and little almost perfect spheres dribbled down the glass, frozen until the sun rose to melt them away.
The guards all paused in their milling about to give acknowledgment to the figure that had come riding up on a brilliant bay horse. Charon could tell from the plumed hat and the way the man bowed over his saddle with laughter that it was that fool Remphan from the night before. Charon gritted his teeth and looked away from the scene. He did not like that man. He did not enjoy anyone so boisterous and loud who shattered the inner peace of his skull. Furthermore, he did not appreciate that work that Remphan had come to do. He didn’t want this draft to be put into effect.
The tall figure of the baron strode confidently across the courtyard, heavy, practical boots sinking into the mud and snow, crunching thin puddles of ice underfoot. Charon licked his lips slowly and his fingers pressed into the glass. The cold made them numb to the dull pain.
That baron mounted his horse, the charcoal gray charger, so that he was perfectly silhouetted against the dark sky. He was a barely discernable outline against the pre-dawn, with the cold morning breeze stirring the fur of his cape and whipping loose strands of iron gray hair around his handsome, chiseled face.
The two men dug their heels into the sides of their mounts and headed for the castle gates, with Ezbon leading the way. A dozen or so men followed them, bearing the black and red flag of the Alliance. Charon’s heart sank a little at this sight. There was no way he was going to be able to avoid this war. No way in the seven hells.
A spray of blue had just started to break its way across the pink and orange hues of the sunrise. Ezbon glanced up at the sky from the saddle of his charger, only half-listening to Remphan prattling along about nothing at his side. His stomach gurgled, and he wished he had thought to grab breakfast before he left. He would just have to eat when he got back, in between organizing the results of the draft and finally setting up this army to be ready whenever Ivan gave the word. It didn’t daunt him in the least that Ivan had more or less taken control of the situation. He almost preferred it. Ivan was a man of his own ideas, and at least he didn’t expect other people to carry them out while he watched and reaped the glory. As long as he realized that this was going to be a new system of government, and it wasn’t a monarchy. Whatever decision he made, he had to clear it by Nicholas first. They had an overwhelming majority with two over three, and Nicholas would probably go along with whatever Ivan fed him. But Ezbon fully intended to do everything he could to keep them from making stupid decisions.
But this draft hadn’t been run by him, and that bothered him. While he and the others had discussed it – he didn’t feel the matter had been settled, and now here Ivan was- issuing a draft without the consulting of his fellows. Perhaps he had consulted Nicholas, and Nicholas had agreed, and Ivan had thought that was enough. After all, Nicholas had the money to fund the war, and Ezbon had only the prestige. Prestige didn’t do shite when you were trying to clothe your men and feed them.
Remphan continued to chatter, and Ezbon continu
ed to pretend to listen. They rode through one village, and then another, taking turns delivering the proclamation.
It was always the same.
The villagers would crowd in the streets; men, women, and children alike. They would stand huddled close to each other to fight off the cold, women clutching their children and keeping a respected distance away from the men. The men would lean forward, suspicious, and intent upon the baron’s words. Some of the younger men whooped, some of the older men grumbled. Most didn’t say anything. Women cried, but no one moved to wipe away their tears.
Ezbon mentally counted the numbers as they went on, and even though the figures climbed – his confidence did not. How in the name of Azrael were they going to defeat Sitharus’ well-trained, well-equipped army, who had gods-knew-what up their sleeve and numbered in the hundreds of thousands, with a rag-tag couple thousand farmers and blacksmiths? It was absurd. They needed soldiers, but all the barons ever had were their own personal guard, and that wasn’t going to be good enough.
From his own pessimistic point of view, it was utterly hopeless. Remphan was slightly more optimistic.
“We’re doing well!” he announced, grabbing the wine skin from his saddle. Skillfully with one hand, he pulled it up and uncorked it with his teeth. Spitting the cork to the ground, he took a long swig of the skin’s contents and then offered some to Ezbon.
“Brandy,” he said, breathlessly. “It will warm your blood.”
Ezbon shook his head in a polite decline of the offer, and Remphan shrugged, withdrawing the skin.
“Why would you say that?” Ezbon asked, rubbing the neck of his charger.
“Well, they haven’t killed us yet. That’s always a good sign.” The Lord of State said, only slightly sarcastically.
“They’re not awake enough for that yet,” Ezbon sighed. “Just wait until this afternoon – they’ll storm the castle with pitchforks and torches and we’ll go up in smoke.”
“That’s no way to think of it at all, where is your confidence in your own province?” Remphan squeezed another mouthful of brandy out of the bottle and swished it around his mouth before swallowing it. “Me, I’ve seen a saucy young tart or two that I wouldn’t mind keeping company during this war, while her husband’s away!”
Ezbon rolled his eyes. “I will put you on the battlefield.”
Remphan hesitated, then rolled his shoulders again and replaced the empty wineskin to his saddle bag. “There’s options out there, too. A fuck is a-“
“Remphan,” Ezbon said quietly. “Shut up.”
“Right,” Remphan straightened in his saddle. “Speaking of fucking, anyway, or whatever you want to call it – how is it you’ve let that boy of yours go for so long?”
“He’s not my boy,” Ezbon corrected for what felt like the hundredth time. “I found him, I told you.”
“Aye, and did you see that look he gave you last night? Like you were the bleeding Azrael incarnated. I’ve seen boys and girls go cow-eyed for you, Ezbon, but not like him. That’s something special. I can’t believe you haven’t taken advantage of it yet.” He gave him a lecherous wink, if he had been close enough he might have elbowed Ezbon in the ribs. “And don’t tell me you haven’t felt the need, either! Every man gets that randy urge, no matter how pious his sensitivities. After what Nicholas did – I’m amazed.”
“I thought,” Ezbon said slowly. “That we weren’t going to talk about Nicholas.”
Remphan shifted uncomfortably in his saddle at the dark razor edge on his friend’s voice. “We weren’t-“
“Then let’s not,” Ezbon urged his horse forward, and Remphan followed behind, keeping a wise distance.
The last city they reached was the farthest from Ezbon castle. It was so tiny that it was a wonder how it had managed to achieve the distinction of ‘city’, when it was in fact more of a village or perhaps something even smaller. Its name had escaped Ezbon’s mind, but he didn’t consider it to be too important at the moment.
The usual crowd did not flock out to meet them. The tension was so thick in the air that you could slice it with a knife as they moved through the empty streets. Every clatter of the horses’ hooves seemed to echo ominously throughout the city. The windows were shut, their doors were bolted. Horses didn’t even nicker from their stalls – it was almost as if the entire town had been evacuated.
“I don’t like this,” Remphan said, glancing around. “I don’t like this at all.” His hand tightened around the hilt of his sword, which hung loosely by his side. His one eye covered every inch of the city, scouring it for any sign of life.
“A few peasants aren’t too thrilled about our arrival,” Ezbon said, and shrugged. “We’ll find the burgomaster, post a notice, and go home.”
“If the burgomaster is indeed, here,” Remphan swiveled his head around and glanced at Ezbon from beneath the brim of his hat. “I think they’ve all gone.”
Ezbon shook his head. “They’re not gone,”
“How can you say that?”
“It’s not empty,” Ezbon reiterated. “Only quiet.”
Noise in the distance – hooves – and armored men. Ezbon glanced up, and he could see, silhouetted against the morning sun, the burgomaster and his soldiers.
“Not abandoned,” Remphan muttered. “I’ll be damned.”
The burgomaster approached them, his horse carry him at the steadiest trot it could manage. He was a large man, and his weight oozed over the saddle, almost obscuring his short, sausage legs. His face was red and wrinkled like a sun-dried tomato. His black, piggy eyes almost vanished into the amounts of excess flesh that had been heaped onto his jowls. He was swathed in rich ermine and velvet; obviously he had not seen the hardship his ‘city’ had.
“My lord,” the burgomaster wheezed through thick lips, bowing in the saddle to his superior. It might have been bowing, though it looked more like bobbing.
“Burgomaster Icolt,” Baron Ezbon greeted coldly. “Something seems to have happened to your village.”
The burgomaster cringed. “Our city, sir, has been faced with a dreadful choice. While we honor and revere you as the proper lord of our lands, we do not believe we have any place in this foolish war that you and y our colleagues have stirred up. A town meeting was held, and it was unanimous – we are sorry, my lord, but we cannot accept your draft as valid.”
Ezbon very suddenly wanted to shove the edict down the fat man’s throat and make him swallow such badly chosen words. His hands tightened on his reins.
“Is that so?” Ezbon asked smoothly. Remphan recognized the danger in his voice, and his color paled, but he merely adjusted his eye covering and didn’t say a word. “I wasn’t consulted about this.”
“We didn’t want you to know, my lord, for fear you might try to stop us.” Icolt thrust out his fat chins, and they wobbled back and forth like obscene jelly. “We will not accept your draft. None of our men will fight under this war for you.”
“Is that so,” Ezbon urged his horse a few steps forward, his expression completely unchanged. “And what gives you the gall to think you have a choice, Icolt?”
The dropping of his title should have made the burgomaster nervous, but he didn’t so much as swallow a second thought. He sat there on his bow-backed mare, his fleshy hands dabbing a white handkerchief over his bald head.
“The last time I checked, I was baron, and not you.” Ezbon’s horse stopped right next to the burgomaster’s, so close that the tips of their boots were touching. “I say you have two choices. You can either accept this draft, or you can be removed from office, and someone else will accept it in your place.”
The burgomaster chortled unattractively. “Oh ho? And who would remove me from office, sir? There is not a single man in this town who would elect another burgomaster in my place.”
Ezbon didn’t reply. He just lifted his chin. “What is your decision, burgomaster?” his words brushed against the burgomaster’s cheek like the lingering finger of an icy chill.
Ezbon’s hands shot forward. He grabbed the burgomaster around the throat, his hands buried underneath the mounds of flesh. He wrapped his fingers around what he hoped to be the trunk of the burgomaster’s neck and squeezed. Icolt gasped and flailed, his horse protesting as he bowed backwards and attempted to keep his balance. Ezbon continued to squeeze, and he heard the burgomaster gurgle as blood rose to his throat. He head cartilage crack, and something gave beneath his fingers. He released the burgomaster’s limp body just in time to avoid the spray of blood from his lips as the body lolled off the saddle and landed with a heavy thud onto the cobblestoned street.
Remphan gave a low whistle, and removed his hat, placing it firmly against his chest. “Azrael’s will,” he said.
Ezbon glanced down at his hands in disgust. The fur-lined leather gloves were smeared with blood and sweat. He peeled them off distastefully and threw them down onto the burgomaster’s body.
“Well, Ezbon,” Remphan chuckled, plopping his hat back onto his head. “I do believe that’s the closest I’ve ever seen you come to losing your temper!”
Ezbon glared at him for the joke. “This is no light matter, Remphan, a man is dead.”
“So? Men die all the time, more men will die in the future. Especially if Ivan has anything to say about it. He isn’t the first,” he indicated the dead burgomaster. “Though I never liked him anyway. Good riddance.”
“Let’s just go,” Ezbon said wearily, and wiped his face with his hands. The cold was already getting to them – he could feel his cold fingertips going numb. He urged his horse to move once more and sidled up back beside Remphan. “We’ll have one of the men post a notice. I’ll assign a new burgomaster when I’ve had breakfast.”