Baron of Blood (Dawning Era Saga)

  Baron of Blood

  By C.N. Faust

  For Mark

  Copyright

  Copyright © 2008, 2012, 2013

  Sarah Carraway

  Future Fantasy Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form, except for the inclusion of brief quotation in review, without permission from the author.

  Original cover images edited by fair use of public domain

  Original image “Knight’s Helmet” by George Hodan.

  Part I

  121 B.T.T.

  Chapter One

  What Azrael has given us, we must not tear asunder.

  King Sitharus’ words echoed clearly in Baron Ivan Clieous’ ears, even a year after they had been spoken. At the time, the king had been referring to a small province near the coast that was too miniscule to survive on its own and too stupid to realize it. They wanted their independence, but Sitharus wouldn’t give it to them. “Azrael has given us this empire,” he said. “And we must not tear it apart.” The very next day, he had sent an entire army down to the little province to ‘crush’ the rebellion. People died, the population was cut down by almost half, but they learned their lesson. They hadn’t rebelled again.

  Then, Ivan had been behind his king one hundred percent.

  Now, he was standing in front of his fireplace, only half paying attention to the conversation between the two men sitting behind him. Baron Nicholas Ercole and Baron Ezbon Cavalla complained about their king over full cups of wine. Neither of them seemed to realize that they had lost their companion to his own thoughts.

  Baccsh, that had been the province’s name. All they had going for them was the fishing industry. They controlled the ports, but not the trade. They thought the ports would be enough to bend Sitharus to their will.

  “Ivan,” Nicholas said, turning his head to glance at his friend. “You’ve hardly touched your wine. Are you all right?”

  “Our friend has other things on his mind,” Ezbon’s soft whispery voice cut through the following silence like a knife. “Perhaps he doesn’t care to talk politics well into obscene hours of the night, as you do.”

  Nicholas furrowed his brow. “Azrael’s eyes, I’ve heard him speak of little else! If ever there was a man who complained more about the king than Ivan, I’ve never met him.”

  Upon hearing his name being mentioned for the second time, Ivan looked up and forced a smile. His eyes still kept a glassy, distant look. “Forgive me, Nicholas, I seem to be out of sorts tonight.”

  “I’ll say,” Nicholas placed the rim of his cup to his lips. His slender throat convulsed as he swallowed a large indulgent gulp of the blackberry wine. “You were brooding all through supper. Is there something you haven’t told us? No tragedy, I hope.”

  “No tragedy,” Ivan assured him, forcing himself to drift away from the fireplace and move closer to the ring of plush chairs. “Speculation.”

  Ezbon’s eyes glittered. “That sounds like something I would be interested in,” he mused. “But it would depend upon the subject of speculation.”

  Ivan wiped his lips nervously with the back of his hand, and rubbed his fingertips together. It was now or never. Either he told them, or he didn’t. There would never be a better opportunity. He could crusade through this alone, or he could seek their help.

  “It’s Sitharus,” Ivan confessed. “I don’t think he’s doing his job.”

  Both of the seated barons exchanged looks. King Sitharus Mahtrador and Baron Ivan Clieous had been at each other’s throats for three solid years. Ever since Sitharus had passed the set of laws that now governed the country, known as The King’s Code, Ivan had denounced his friend as an idiot. He had moved from court as quickly as possible, retreating permanently to his family home in Drakkian Province – a good month’s journey from the capital, if you didn’t taken periodic snows into account and had incredibly good luck.

  And ever since Ivan Clieous had assumed his position as baron, things had become significantly harder for the residents of Drakkian Province. Taxes had increased; the people could not pay them. As a result, businesses had begun to shut down, and they province was on a steady decline to abject poverty. As if to strike a heavier blow, Sitharus had cut off their trading rights. They could not longer receive foreign goods, and to trade even with other provinces was very limited. Everything had to have his approval. Clieous was not a popular baron.

  “Regardless, he is king, and what can we do?” Ezbon reasoned, rolling his goblet around in his fingers.

  “Don’t you remember what our childhoods were like?” Ivan hammered on, trying to make his point hit home. The seated barons nodded in unison. “We were free! Our fathers did not have to pay for the land they lived on. There were no taxes, none of these laws that let you get away with murder. If you sinned in our day, then you were punished for it. And that was the end of it. It was-“

  “Primitive,” Nicholas concluded, and Ezbon agreed.

  “I was going to say ‘barbaric’,” the soft-spoken baron replied. “What is the point to all this, Ivan?”

  “I think the monarchy has outlived its usefulness, is all,” Ivan said, gripping his goblet so tightly it threatened to give underneath the pressure. “Drakkian Province has been suffering – and it needs to end.”

  “But Sitharus is king, not you,” Nicholas reminded him.

  “What if we were?” Ivan’s head was spinning. The ideas that rushed through his mind were excited, exhilarating – the more he thought about it the better of an idea it was. Be king, indeed, the three of them!

  “’We’?” Nicholas asked dubiously. “What in the name of Azrael are you talking about?”

  “We,” Ivan emphasized to show it was no mistake.

  “Three men cannot be king,” Ezbon placed his fingertips together diplomatically.

  “Maybe it takes more than one man to run an empire this vast,” Ivan said, his words slurring in his excitement. “Maybe it takes three. Maybe it takes us.”

  “What you are suggesting,” Ezbon said, slowly. “Is treason.”

  “Treason, or revolution?” Ivan shot back.

  “Rarely is there a difference between the two,” Ezbon hissed.

  “Drakkian Province is suffering!” Ivan fought to keep from shouting. “We can win our independence, we deserve it!”

  “I’m sure that is what they said in Baccsh,” Ezbon said dryly.

  “We’re not Baccsh!”

  “We are no stronger,” Ezbon’s soft voice had a hard, angry edge. “And we don’t control the ports.”

  “Divided, no,” Ivan looked from one baron to the other. Nicholas’ face had gone through varying degrees of doubt during the entirety of the conversation. Ezbon’s face was a blank stone wall – revealing nothing. “If the three of us stand together, we can do this. We can win independence.”

  “But,” Nicholas’ voice cut in before Ezbon could reply. “Do we want it?”

  “Yes,” Ivan said without hesitation.

  “You do know that if Sitharus caught word of this, he would turn us into sausages and eat us with his morning meal.” Nicholas’ voice had dropped, he was practically whispering.

  “You will do it?” Ivan asked. He could hardly contain his enthusiasm.

  Nicholas shook his head. “Not yet,” he said.

  “Think about it,” Ivan entreated. “Simply think about it, that’s all I ask. Come back to me in a week. If you say no…”

  “Then you’ll do it by yourself,” Ezbon scoffed. “And go down on the battlefield, choking on your own blood.”

  Ivan shrugged. “If that’s what it takes.”

  “A week, then.” Ezbon stood, and
extended a hand towards Ivan. “I have to get home. Thank you for this evening, it was most… enlightening.”

  “I should be leaving, too.” Nicholas said, standing as well. “Thank you, Ivan. Dinner was excellent; remind me to return the favor one of these days.”

  “If we all aren’t buried in a prison by then,” Ezbon muttered, but no one heard him.

  “Must you go?” Ivan asked, clasping both their hands.

  “I’m afraid so,” Nicholas said. “Arceia will hand me my head on a plate if I get caught in this snow overnight.”

  Ezbon shot his companion a wry look. “Arceia, is it? And just last week you hated her.”

  “I do,” Nicholas said, returning the look with a dark one of his own. “But she is still my wife.”

  “I can’t think of a single person who must regret that more than you do. Well,” Ezbon paused; a sly smirk flitted across his lips. “I can think of one.”

  Nicholas blushed hotly, and shot the baron a filthy look. “I will be leaving, now.”

  “Safe trip,” Ivan said.

  Without another word, Baron Nicholas Ercole stormed out the doors of the Clieous castle and into the newly fallen snow.

  * * *

  The night was dark, the moon had retreated behind the velvet black curtain of night, and the driving white snowflakes from the eternal winter sky made it impossible to see. Nicholas climbed into his carriage and shut the door tightly behind him, deciding to let his driver take care of it. He released a long, slow breath and rested his head against the hard wooden seat.

  Ivan had gone mad, he was sure of it. What was all of that about, anyway? A revolution! Dragoloth had been under the same ruling family since the beginning of time. Before the Baccsh rebellion, no one had dared challenge their authority. The rebellion may have been destroyed, but obviously the idea still remained.

  And even if Drakkian Province could survive…

  It was too radical. Maybe in a few decades, maybe less, the idea could take root and grow. But in this age, it could never happen.

  “My lord,” a rough voice came from nearby, seemingly distant and hollow, just enough to arouse him from his sleep. “You are home.”

  Nicholas’ eyelids felt heavy and gummed shut as he opened them to glance out the window. Castle Ercole loomed before him, striking and grand where it stood in the midst of the whirling snow. Dawn was just beginning to paint the sky various shades of lavender and dark blue, and bathed the entire scene in a sort of pale purple glow. Nicholas licked his dry lips as he stepped out of the carriage, the snow deep enough at this point to go over the tops of his boots. He cursed the drink that made his head feel like it was made of marble as he started up the castle steps. He wanted only to fall in bed and for just a little while, forget the entire evening had ever occurred. He would think about it later.

  Nicholas made his way through the front door the castle, skirting the occasional servant that crossed his path. The rest of the household was not yet awake, even his wife would not emerge from her dragon den until the sun was up. And he intended to be long out of her way by then. If he was lucky, he could avoid her for another day entirely.

  “Welcome home, my lord,” a gentle, familiar voice spoke from nearby.

  Nicholas smiled and turned to face the staircase where his manservant Arodi sat, elbows resting on his knees and grinning cattishly.

  “Have you been waiting here all night?” he asked.

  “Yes,” the servant stood and hopped down the last two steps. “I was worried – with all this snow.”

  “Is Arceia in bed?” Nicholas asked, stepping closer.

  “Yes,” Arodi tilted his head back and smirked. “She complained of a headache.”

  “We are alone, then,” Nicholas sounded relieved as he slid his hand behind Arodi’s neck and cradled his head, using his free hand to stroke the servant’s long chestnut hair.

  “As alone as we are going to be,” Arodi whispered. “Shall we go upstairs?”

  “Yes,” Nicholas said. “I’m exhausted.”

  “Not too exhausted, I hope.” Arodi said teasingly, tugging on the fabric of Nicholas’s doublet. “I’ve been alone all night waiting for you. I think I deserve some reparations.”

  “For you, my love, anything,” Nicholas said, sliding his am around Arodi’s waist and kissing him. Arodi stood up on his toes, placing his hands on Nicholas’ shoulders, and deepened the kiss with his tongue.

  Nicholas nuzzled Arodi on the throat, kissing his satin skin. “There is so much to tell you.”

  “Upstairs,” Arodi said, and tugged him towards the bedroom.

  Despite the many words he wanted to say, Nicholas spoke very little for the remainder of the hour.

  * * *

  Baron Ezbon Cavalla had always preferred riding alone. He hated carriages for the very reason that he hated the feeling of placing his life in someone else’s hands. If he got trapped in a snow drift and died, he wanted it to be his own damned fault, not some incompetent idiot’s.

  And so, it was his powerful charcoal gray charger that he mounted when he left Clieous Castle. The snow didn’t bother him as much as he knew it would bother Nicholas. He set off at a reasonable pace for his own castle. He wasn’t in any particular hurry, he knew he would get there eventually, and there was no one waiting at home for him.

  His mind lingered only briefly on the ‘revolution’ idea before he dismissed it as not only preposterous, but idiotic. Ivan was simply still sore over the broken relationship between himself and Sitharus, and was obviously trying to extract some revenge. No one had had to point out that Sitharus would crush such a rebellion before it really began. They all knew it. But perhaps it had done Ivan some good to rant and get it out of his system. As long as the idea went no further than his sitting room, they would all be safe.

  Ezbon’s mind wandered away from the topic and towards his own strained relations. He remembered very clearly the look on Nicholas’s face when he stood to leave. Arceia didn’t want him home, that was all cock-and-bull. It was well known that husband and wife hated each other as much as hate could exist between two people. The day Arceia asked for her husband to return home was the day that all of the ice in Dragoloth melted and ran into the seas. As for Nicholas, he didn’t give a whore’s eye about what his wife thought. No, his preferences lie elsewhere. She knew it – and didn’t care.

  Baron Ezbon had spent a lot of time wishing that Arceia would go ahead and murder her husband. He would not blame her, in fact, he would probably knight her. Nicholas Ercole had betrayed him badly. It was bad enough to be spurned – it was worse to be spurned for a mere servant.

  The snow was falling harder and faster. Ezbon urged his charger to slow down, bringing it to a slow walk. He rubbed the horse’s gray neck with one gloved hand and tried not to dwell on the matter too long. What was done was done, his bitterness only got in the way of his common sense. It was wise to have an alliance with Ercole. Both baronies were powerful and benefited each other greatly. If such a relation were to be dissolved, then they could cause a lot of trouble for each other as well. Ezbon didn’t feel like fighting a two-front war, for if Ercole turned against him then Clieous would undoubtedly follow. Drakkian Province would be ripped apart from the inside. Sitharus would try to interfere, and Ivan would do something stupid. The feud could last years – generations – and stop his family from growing and prospering as they should. No, a war with his fellow barons was the last thing that he wanted.

  His horse’s hooves struck the cobblestoned streets of the city, and Ezbon felt himself relax. Even though it was still impossible to see, he knew that if he kept on the right path then he would eventually end up at an inn where he could check in for the night. He would continue his journey in the morning, with clearer skies.

  “Azrael’s eyes,” he muttered under his breath. “Revolution – indeed!”

  Chapter Two

  Ezbon broke the thin sheet of ice that crusted over the water of the porcelain bowl. His
hands and his face went instantly numb as he dipped his fingers into the water and scooped it up, splashing it against his face. The icy droplets streamed from his forehead to his chin, vanishing into the lines of his face. Baron Ezbon picked up the small towel that the inn had provided and dabbed the excess water away from his face, pausing briefly to examine his appearance in the mirror. The inn was not of excellent quality, but it had tried to provide him with every comfort. The mirror was little more than a piece of polished tin hammered to the wall. But it was enough. Ezbon leaned forward as close as he could for a better view.

  He was young by most standards, about twenty-five, but also the oldest of the three barons. He had started going gray at the age of seven, and by the time he was sixteen, he was fully gray. This gave the illusion of additional years, which sometimes worked to his advantage. Though waist-length hair was in style, his was clipped short, curling around his shoulders and eternally slicked back away from his face, tucked behind his ears. His skin was pale, almost every pulsing blue vein visible beneath the surface. His eyes were bright pale blue, ringed with thick, curling black lashes and set underneath heavy gray brows. He kept a modest amount of facial hair, which he kept carefully trimmed around his jaw line and his mouth. It wasn’t a full beard.

  Ezbon ran his hand over his cheeks, making certain that he was suitable to face the day. Satisfied that what he saw was as good as it was going to get, he set some money down on the table next to his bed and headed out to the stables to get his horse.

  The stable boy was a scrawny, tow-headed boy with two missing teeth and a crooked smile. He handed over the reins of the charger, and Ezbon pressed a coin into his hand. The boy stared at it in wide-eyed amazement, for money was so difficult to come by. It was an entire pewter darak; his family would probably eat off of it for a month.

  The boy looked up at Ezbon briefly and bowed. Ezbon looked away and patted the neck of his charger. The horse swung its massive head around and nuzzled his cheek, nickering softly as if to sympathize. He could not look the boy in the eyes and accept his gratitude. He was the leech who was bleeding the poor child’s family dry in the first place. He ate off of their profits, and whatever he did not consume he dumped onto the king’s plate. There was nothing left for the peasantry in the end but what scraps the nobles had dropped under the table. And like starving dogs, the poor scrambled for them, fighting and clawing at each other to see who could get their share first.