Baron of Blood (Dawning Era Saga)

by C. N. Faust

  Something soft nuzzled the side of his hand. Ezbon looked down and saw that Remphan had peeled away his own scarlet suede gloves – and was offering them to him.

  “Come on,” Remphan said, “I won’t take ‘no’ for an answer.”

  “You sound like Nicholas,” Ezbon muttered, slipping the gloves on.

  “I thought we weren’t going to talk about him?” Remphan asked teasingly, leaning forward in the saddle.

  “We’re not,” Ezbon said, and his horse began a canter.

  Chapter Four

  Charon stuck his head through the dining hall doors, glancing around to catch a glimpse of the baron. Ezbon sat at the enormous table alone, eating poached eggs and bread with honey. Remphan had announced that he was exhausted, and that he was going to go to bed and sleep for a year. Then he had disappeared with one of the serving maids.

  Ezbon scooped a mouthful of egg into his mouth, poking at the side of salted pork leftover from the previous night’s supper that his cook had snuck in. It was her small attempt to get rid of leftovers one meal at a time. Very industrious, in his opinion, he encouraged it.

  Taking a deep breath, Charon stepped into the dining room hall and the let the heavy doors slide shut behind him. Ezbon looked up briefly to acknowledge his presence.

  “Good afternoon, my lord,” Charon said carefully, trying to gauge the baron’s mood. “I hope your business went well.”

  “Not as well as I would have liked, but better than expected.” Ezbon tasted the pork and gestured for Charon to have a seat. “I trust you’ve been fed.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Charon took a seat beside him.

  “Then forgive me while I finish,” Ezbon said, dipping his bread into the bowl of honey. “How may I be of service?”

  “I never got my chance to thank you,” the boy said, licking his lips to moisten them.

  Ezbon paused, and looked at him oddly. “I think you tried.”

  “Yes,” Charon said, meeting his gaze. “And I was interrupted.”

  Ezbon looked away. “I’ve already told you it’s not necessary.”

  “I think so,” Charon stood, and made his way over to wear the baron was sitting. Ezbon opened his mouth in protest, but Charon placed two fingers on his lips, and shook his head. He straddled the baron’s hips, thighs clamped down firmly over his waist. He locked his ankles around the leg of the chair, so that escape was impossible. And he could feel the baron’s need shoot off like an arrow and strain against the confinements of his trousers. Charon rubbed experimentally, and Ezbon groaned, twisting a little in the chair. “I think it’s very necessary.”

  “Why?” Ezbon’s voice was breathy, his face flushed.

  “Because were it not for you, I would have frozen right there on that street.” Charon cupped the baron’s face in his hands, and tilted it slightly upward. He brushed strands of hair away from the baron’s eyes, and stared straight into their depths. They were fathomless – he could not comprehend where they met take him, were he to allow himself to drown in them. “And you are…” he paused, at the moment lost for words. Somewhere deep down inside, he knew why he was there, but he had temporarily forgotten, lost in the baron’s “beauty,” he whispered in awe. “You are so beautiful.”

  And then Charon kissed him. A gentle kiss at first, but as Ezbon more than gladly reciprocated, it became more heated. He bit the baron’s bottom lip, sucking on it, and then gave his top lip the same treatment. He grabbed Ezbon by the wrists, pinning them down to the arms of the chair. Ezbon struggled, but not enough to escape, and his tongue searched Charon’s mouth, hot and passionate, seeking something in return. Charon leaned in and rubbed against him further, rotating his hips in a slow, steady motion. Ezbon twisted and groaned and continued to kiss him. He had become hungry, his own dormant need had risen up inside of him and this boy, this miscreant whom he had plucked off the streets, was kindling the fire of that need.

  At some point, Charon released the baron’s wrists, and slid away. Ezbon again tried to protest, but Charon silenced him with another deep kiss.

  “Not here,” he whispered. “Not now. Finish your breakfast.”

  Ezbon did his best to regain composure. Closing his eyes and taking a few deep breaths, it was several minutes before he replied, “When, and where?”

  “Tonight?” Charon asked hopefully, running fingers through that iron gray hair he loved so much. “Wherever you’re comfortable.”

  “My chambers,” Ezbon said, almost solemnly. “After supper.”

  “Sounds splendid,” in one final daring gesture, Charon grabbed him by the groin, stiff in his fingers, and gave it a good-natured squeeze. It earned him another gasp from Ezbon’s lips before he left the dining hall, satisfied with his work.

  Ezbon was fully recovered by the time Charon had left. What in the hells just happened? He wondered to himself, finding that he no longer had much of an appetite for breakfast. He wanted something heartier, more physical, more satisfying. He would have to wait, unfortunately.

  Wiping the corners of his mouth, Ezbon pushed back his chair the rest of the way and stood up. It was time to get back to work. There was so much to be done…

  He was halfway to the doors when they flew open and a man came staggering in. He was disheveled, as if he had been running – or riding – a great distance. He was so disoriented and dizzy that he stumbled right to his knees, and he tried to get his words out to the baron between heavy, heaving breaths.

  “M-My l-lord!” he gasped, trying to catch his tongue up to his brain. “It’s the b-baron, my l-lord, the b-baron Ercole!”

  He had Ezbon’s attention almost immediately. The baron went back to the table, poured a glass of wine, and practically ran back to where the man had all but collapsed.

  “What happened?” he shoved the glass under the man’s nose. “Tell me!’

  The man accepted the glass, drinking heartily of its contents before he tried to speak again.

  “The Baron Ercole, my lord, he’s decided he’s going to invade. There hasn’t been any word from King Sitharus, and so he wants to march in on Madrigal --- in a fortenight!”

  “No!” Ezbon shouted, angrily. “He isn’t, is he? Damn, damn!”

  “He calls your assistance!”

  “He isn’t going to get it! Damned fool!” Ezbon growled, and raked a hand through his hair in frustration. A fortenight. What kind of idiot that he could raise an army to rival that of the king’s in a fortenight?

  “He demands it!” the man insisted. “He says you will help him do this if you know where your loyalties lie.”

  Ezbon whirled around, and his glare bore right through the man’s skull. “I am very aware of where my loyalties lie,” he hissed. “You might wish to ask Nicholas if he knows where his do.”

  “I don’t understand,” The man stammered.

  “Who is he thinking of, here? Drakkian Province? Unlikely. The House of Ercole? Well, there’s no damned doubt it, is there? The sot! He can’t seen any further past his own nose…” his cursing died down, his voice not accustomed to staying so loud for so long. He knew what was going to happen. He would have to wake Remphan. They would have to rally an army. They were going to be crushed to pieces within weeks.

  Madrigal. It was the closest city, it bordered Drakkian Province. It had almost no military force to back it up, it was an easy target. It would Drakkian Province a sense of false victory and would create a minor annoyance for King Sitharus. That was all. That was all.

  Ezbon rubbed his face. He should never have agreed to this in the first place.

  “Go tell Nicholas I will ride with him,” he growled. “What is Baron Clieous going to do?”

  “He supports the Baron Ercole,” the man said, humbly.

  “I’ll bet he does,” Ezbon stalked out the door, heading straight for the stables. Remphan wasn’t going to be happy about being roused. “Damned fools, the lot of them, damned fools!”

  Chapter Five

  Remphan was hav
ing a wonderful dream. Perhaps it wasn’t a dream at all, though. Perhaps the sweet maid curled up beside him was real, sharing her warmth with his, her naked bosom pressed against his back. He loved the feel of her silky skin; he adored the steadiness of her gentle breathing. He wanted to gather her into his arms and never leave this warmth, this comfort.

  It all ended when what felt like a gallon of icy water was upset upon his head. The maid shrieked in surprise, and he damn near had a heart-attack. He jerked the knife out from under his pillow and waved it threateningly at the intruder, choking and sputtering and groping for something dry to wipe his eyes.

  “I’m sorry,” said a familiar, apologetic voice. “I needed you awake.”

  “Damned… funny way of… doing it!” Remphan gave up and just blinked the water away from his eyes, raking his bleary vision across the room to find the ingrate responsible. “Damn it, Ezbon, I hate you.”

  “It is important,” Ezbon said, replacing the washbasin back to where it belonged.

  The maid shivered on the floor, pulling the covers away from the bed and around her shoulders. She didn’t look up at her master. She wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible.

  “You stole my maid,” Ezbon observed.

  “I was going to give her back,” Remphan twisted his lips, dangerously close to sulking. “What the hells do you want? And who let you in here? I’ll flay them alive.”

  “The innkeeper’s wife did,” Ezbon replied, amused. “A dear lady.”

  “She knows better,” Remphan muttered. “I said ‘no visitors’ quite clearly.”

  “I am not a visitor, I am your superior, and we have a problem.” Ezbon moved to the window, and glanced out at the street below. “Nicholas is going to invade Madrigal.”

  “What!” Remphan exclaimed, furrowing his brow. “What is he thinking?”

  “I don’t know,” Ezbon said. “I think he is trying to lose before this war even starts.”

  Remphan rugged his face, flicking moisture from his fingertips. “How long do we have?”

  “A fortenight,” Ezbon said somberly. “That’s when he plans to march.”

  Remphan stared bleakly at his hands. “That doesn’t give us much time.”

  “It doesn’t give us any,” Ezbon corrected.

  “How does he plan to raise that army? What does he plan to do with it? Does he think he can just march over the border and take it without raising his sword?” Remphan set his teeth.

  “He must, or else he wouldn’t even be attempting this,” Ezbon clasped his hands behind his back. “And he expects us to help him.”

  “How? We just issued a draft today. That will take weeks-“

  “We’re going to be crushed,” Ezbon sighed.

  Remphan spat. “We’ll be bloody pulp on the battlefield. One big, bloody damn smear.”

  Ezbon closed his eyes. “I’m walking a fine line with my sanity, Remphan. I don’t think I can do this.”

  Remphan settled a hand on his shoulder. “Go home, get some rest. There isn’t anything we can do right now. We’ll have to start on it tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow, why wait?” Ezbon muttered. “Let’s just get started now.”

  “We won’t get anything done until your clerk can give us lists and names. And we might as well give the draft a day or two for that. Tomorrow I’ll come help get supplies ready. Food, uniforms – we’ll talk about all that. But go home.” He prodded his companion in the chest and released him. “You care too much.”

  “And you don’t care at all,” Ezbon gave him a weary smile. “My very much mis-titled Lord of State.”

  “I take what’s given to me,” Remphan spun the baron around and began to push him out towards the door. “Go. I will see you in the morning.”

  “How early?” Ezbon asked, grabbing the doorframe.

  “Damnably early. You’ll hate me forever,” Remphan gave him one final shove and shut the door.

  Charon collapsed against the rumpled covers of the bed, his skin shiny and slick with a thin sheen of sweat. The fur covers stuck to his skin, his golden curls were plastered to his neck, but he didn’t care. His groin was on fire, his legs were still splayed apart at an awkward angle – the pearly whiteness of his own passion still sleek and glistening against his inner thighs. Everything about him ached. His hips felt bruised and battered, his nipples throbbed with having been pinched and bitten. His mouth was dry, but his lips were moist – and he had never felt better in all his life.

  He finally summoned the strength to slowly roll over onto his side and rest his head on Ezbon’s chest. The baron’s eyes were closed, and his breathing was even, steady – but he wasn’t yet asleep.

  Charon idly stroked his fingertips down the front of the baron’s chest, tracing them admirably around his chiseled abdomen and down his muscled arms.

  It was pitch black. He couldn’t have seen anything if he wanted to. The fire had long died down to smoldering embers, and the moon was hidden behind a curtain of angry storm clouds. They were in for more snow. Charon wormed underneath the covers and curled himself around the baron’s body, pressing his face into his shoulder and sighing contentedly.

  “My lord?” he whispered.

  “Hm?” Baron Ezbon stirred.

  “Are you awake?” Charon stroked the baron’s leg with his ankle.

  “Now,” Ezbon shifted, and slid his arm around Charon’s waist, drawing him closer. “Are you all right?”

  “All right?” Charon laughed softly. “It was the best I’ve ever had.” With those words, he felt his groin stir, he felt the desire being aroused anew. He wanted to take the baron all over again, to lash his arms back to the bedpost and straddle his hips again. Mount him; ride him, for the briefest of moments, to be in absolute command.

  The feeling passed when weariness swept over him, and the baron kissed him softly on the lips.

  “I enjoyed it,” he said.

  Charon purred, and nuzzled his neck. “You sound tired.”

  “I am,” Ezbon admitted. “I might have to go to sleep.”

  “No, don’t sleep, talk to me,” Charon wasn’t ready to give up this rare moment of the baron’s undivided attention. “You were late coming to supper, why?”

  “I was working,” Ezbon said, nipping at the boy’s soft earlobe. “There is more paperwork to be done for one barony during a war than there is sitting on the desk of the king himself any other time.”

  “Is it true, you are going to invade Madrigal?” Charon idly stroked Ezbon’s chin, running his fingertips over the coarseness of the hairs on his chin and upper lip.

  “Nicholas is going to invade, I’m going to help,” Ezbon sighed. “Because I have to.”

  “You don’t have to do anything,” Charon said. “You don’t have to go to war – if you don’t want to.”

  “But I do have to,” Ezbon said. “It’s my war now, as well, whether I want it that way or not.”

  “But I don’t want to go to war,” Charon said, fighting to keep the twinge of desperation out of his voice. He wriggled closer to Ezbon, wrapping a leg around his. “You wouldn’t make me, would you?”

  Ezbon furrowed his brow. “What do you mean? Exempt you from the draft?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Charon said quickly, reaching under the covers and stroking between Ezbon’s legs. “But you wouldn’t make me go, would you? If I didn’t want to.”

  Ezbon went stiff beneath his fingers. He squeezed. The baron groaned.

  “I don’t know,” Ezbon said. “I don’t suppose so.” He gasped when Charon squeezed again.

  “You are wonderful,” Charon said sweetly, and pulled the covers aside entirely. He placed his hands Ezbon’s hips and slowly inched his way down his body until his mouth hovered inches away from the baron’s very alive groin.

  Ezbon, sensing what was coming, closed his eyes to the darkness and dug his fingertips into the blankets. Charon raked his nails down Ezbon’s thighs, forcing them apart, and then dove in for the kill, his
mouth sliding over as much of the organ as he could gather, and he began to tease it. Ezbon felt a warm, moist pink tongue lick and tease him, - again. And he felt his need well up as if he was about to burst and his orgasm heightened – again.

  Charon kept this up throughout the night. Ezbon didn’t sleep.

  Chapter Six

  The air was rank with fear.

  Ezbon stroked the neck of his charger, more to calm himself than the beast. He was doing his best to avoid glancing behind him. For if he did that, he would have to face the army that he and Remphan had managed to glean in the short time they had been given. This army was nothing more than men – some volunteers, some drafted – who had been pulled together, given weapons, and told to above all never retreat. They were poorly dressed. Nicholas hadn’t seen fit to give them matching uniforms, for whatever reason, so they wore what they had brought from home. The army had been able to provide thick woolen jackets, but that was about it. Some of the men didn’t even have proper shoes, and their feet were frozen in the unforgiving winter snow.

  They had been fed. At least their bellies were full. Ezbon had been able to provide them bread, meat, and cheese. Remphan had provided the beer. His contribution had given him an unfair advantage in favoritism amongst the ranks.

  “Are you ready?” a familiar voice rumbled beside him. Ezbon didn’t even glance over at his companion. He couldn’t look Nicholas in the eye. He kept his gaze fixed straight ahead.

  “This is madness,” he said.

  “Do you think we are going to win by pussy-footing around this war?” Nicholas growled. “No! We have to EARN Sitharus’ respect. What better way to do that than to fight on his home ground – and win?”

  “I am certain there are other ways to earn his respect, other than sending your own troops to their slaughter.” Ezbon shook his head. “And Ivan approves of this?”

  “It doesn’t matter what Ivan thinks,” Nicholas said haughtily, tossing his head in an effort to move his red hair away from his eyes. “We’ll win. And then you won’t regret this.”