Into the Abyss (The Nightslayer Trilogy, Part 2) - Chapter Five

Tymothe Vabarn, Baron of Blanchart, stood at the window of his chamber in the castle of Valewind and watched the men train in the courtyard. Not all of the men he saw were Telvan – some bore the almost ghostly pallor that marked the people of Orogrod, while others had the slanted eyes of Velestar, or the darker skin tones of lands further to the south – but they all seemed to be doing a remarkable job of working together, of putting aside any differences they may have once had and recognizing each other as people striving toward the same goal. Tymothe found the sight of such union disturbing – no duke, baron, or king in the last five hundred years had ever succeeded at inspiring such a thing, but now, after only a few short weeks, Garrold Hilstren, a man who wouldn't be in the position he was except through unhappy chance, had. His lands should be mine! Those troops should be mine!

Fifty years ago, Duke Paulus Vilar had, along with almost half the population of Telvany, succumbed to the plague known as the Red Death. At the time, there had been no one of direct lineage to take his place, and it had seemed that Telvany – which, even then, had been the largest and most prosperous duchy in the kingdom – would become a part of the Barony of Blanchart, with Tymothe's father as its new lord. But then the monks of Catharzen – who had always been almost as meddlesome as they were useful, but never enough to be considered a threat – had announced that House Vilar did have an heir. The heir – Garrold's father – hadn't been of direct lineage, which meant that, traditionally, he shouldn't have been allowed to become duke. The monks, however, made such an impassioned petition to the king that the king had acquiesced, naming Garrold's father Duke of Telvany and preventing Tymothe's father from nearly tripling the amount of land he held. The decision had sent Tymothe's father into such a fit of rage that his heart had given out, meaning that Tymothe had been named Baron of Blanchart the same day that Jasen Hilstren – a man whose friendship Tymothe still sometimes missed, despite everything that had eventually come between them – had been given his ducal coronet by the king.

If none of that had happened, however – if Jason Hilstren had never become Duke of Telvany, and Tymothe now held the lands that were Garrold's – would Tymothe be the one building an army, now? Would he be planning a war against the king – a king who, despite his oaths, he'd never really felt any sense of loyalty toward? Tymothe didn't know, and, because he didn't, the scene taking place outside his window became all the more galling. And wouldn't it gall him even more if he decided to swear fealty to Garrold – to the whelp who reminded Tymothe so much of how his father had been at that age that standing in the same room with him was almost more painful than he could bear? Standing there, looking out the window of a castle that, had things gone just a little differently, would have belonged to him, Tymothe found himself wishing he had died years ago, and that all these questions – all these problems – would have been those of his heir.

“That's quite a set of spells that have been placed on you, Baron. And cast by your mother, no less. She must have been a very impressive woman.”

Somehow, the voice didn't surprise Tymothe like he thought it should have. Had he been expecting it, then? It was possible – no one had ever been able to tell him all of the things the spells his mother had put on him before she died were meant to do. Turning away from the window, Tymothe looked at the person who had spoken – if a shadowy figure wreathed in a halo of flame warranted the title of person. Tymothe, despite understanding who – and what – it was that had joined him, found that he wasn't frightened. If anything, he felt resigned. It was almost like he'd been waiting for this meeting for a very long time, and that, now that it had come, he just wanted to get it over and done with.

“Has my time finally come, then?” Tymothe asked.

“That depends,” the Demon Lord said. “If you are wondering if the time has come for you to die, I'm sorry to disappoint you by saying that it hasn't. However, if you are wondering if the moment has come for you to finally seize the glory that has always been denied to you, I can say that, as long as you make the proper choice, it has.”

“The proper choice? And what would that be? All I want, my Lord, is to be free of the concerns of this life, and if you are not here to grant me that, then I ask you to be gone.”

“Do you, now? Baron, do you know how dangerous it is for you to ask that of me? To ask that of your king?”

So he wasn't speaking to just any of the Demon Lords – he was speaking to the Hidden King, himself. Of course, that didn't actually matter, as, when it came to the subject of a person's soul, all of the Demon Lords were said to be equally dangerous. Tymothe found he still didn't care, however – being a thrall to the Hidden King would still mean that the concerns of his mortal life would be behind him. “I understand what could happen, and what probably will,” he said. “It doesn't matter.”

“It should. You see, my Lord, if I decide to make a thrall of your soul, you will never know any rest. Your whole existence will become nothing but pain and suffering. Is that what you truly want, Tymothe? Is it?”

“Perhaps it's what I deserve.”

“And what of your people when you are gone? They will have no one to lead them. Your barony will be no more. When your mother placed those spells on you – particularly the one that has maintained your health and vitality – do you think that's what she wanted? For her son to simply give up, for him to abandon both himself and his people? She wanted glory for you, Tymothe. Glory that can still be yours, should you choose to join me.”

“Join you? As what?”

“It seems that, after a few recent events, my forces in this world need someone to lead them. I want that someone to be you, Tymothe.”

Tymothe frowned. “What of King Lyrian?”

The Hidden King snorted in derision. “Lyrian,” he said. “Why Atraxos ever thought he could be useful is beyond me. Devin Lyrian, Baron, is quite dead, and so are all his heirs. His throne, and all that comes with it, can be yours. And then, together, you and I can unlock everything your mother gave to you before she died.”

“What did she give to me?” Tymothe asked. “All I know is that she cursed me with an unnaturally long life and the inability to produce an heir.”

“Oh, Baron, she gave you more than you can imagine,” the Hidden King said. “Much, much more. Will you join me?”

An image suddenly flashed through Tymothe's mind, an image of him standing before the kneeling form of Garrold Hilstren and looking into his eyes in the moments before beheading him with his sword. Those eyes were the eyes of a broken, fearful man, and Tymothe found himself wanting very much to see them in the flesh. Perhaps, when the time came, he could even make Garrold beg for his life.

Tymothe dropped to one knee before the Hidden King and bowed his head. “My sword and my life are yours, Great One,” he said.

The Hidden King's laughter filled the room.

Into the Abyss (The Nightslayer Trilogy, Part 2) - Chapter Four

The Baron was late. Sitting on his throne in Valewind's great hall, Garrold stared across the room at the doors that should have opened fifteen minutes earlier to permit the Baron's entry, unaware that, as he stared, the index finger of his right hand had begun to tap an impatient rhythm on the arm of the chair. Why was the Baron – who had arrived at Valewind the previous evening – forcing him to wait like this? After all, didn't the man have a reputation throughout the kingdom for an almost absurd dedication to punctuality? Did he intend for his lateness to be a show of defiance? If so, Garrold couldn't help but think how childish such a show would be, especially since, so far, Garrold had given the Barron nothing to be defiant about. I could have the men bring him here, Garrold thought. Despite giving Garrold a measure of satisfaction, doing that wouldn't help anything, however, and, right now, Garrold needed all the help he could get.

At last, the doors at the other end of the hall opened, a herald – one of the Baron's, as Garrold only ever used the monks as court heralds – announcing the Baron's presence as the short, round, bearded man stepped through them. Garrold – who had never met the Baron, before, and only knew him by what he had heard of him – disliked him on sight, as he carried himself with an air of such overblown pomposity that, to Garrold, he resembled nothing less than a strutting, preening peacock. If the Baron hadn't been so overweight – even to the point of growing short of breath as he approached the throne – he might have been able to pull off the act, but, right now, he wasn't fooling anyone. Which, Garrold found, made him feel a twinge of pity for the Baron, who obviously wanted so very much for everyone to see him as something he probably hadn't been in a very long time.

“Greetings, my Lord Baron,” Garrold said once the Baron had come to a stop at a somewhat less that respectable distance from the throne. “You honor us with your presence.”

The Baron gave a slight bow. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said. “Though I must say, were it not for the disturbing reports I've heard coming from Telvany, I would not be here, at all.”

“Oh?” Garrold said. “And what reports would those be?”

“That you've done no less than take up arms against your king. That you've proclaimed yourself Magister of an empire that no longer exists. In short, Your Grace, I've heard things that would make any rational man think you've taken leave of your senses and gone mad.”

“I see. And is that, Baron, what you believe?”

The Baron didn't answer right away. “I don't know what I believe, yet,” he said at last. “But I can say that, from where I stand, I see things that make me uneasy. Not the least of which is the crown you're wearing. Not the coronet of a duke. A crown. Can you tell me the meaning of that, Your Grace? And of the troops I saw training outside?”

“Before I do,” Garrold said, “let me ask you a question of my own. When was the last time you heard from the king? Was it, perhaps, when he issued the decree against the Order of Catharzen?”

“It may have been.”

“I see. Did you follow that decree, my Lord?”

There was a rustling of feet against stone as a number of monks emerged from the shadows of the great hall. The Baron glanced nervously to each side, and sweat appeared on his brow. Garrold had to force himself to keep from smiling. “There's no need for alarm,” he said. “They're simply as eager to hear your answer as I am.”

“N-no, Your Grace,” the Baron said. He licked his lips. “Following the king's decree would have meant the loss of the realm's greatest loremasters and healers. Such an evil would be unconscionable.”

Garrold did smile, this time. “I'm pleased you and I were in agreement on that point. However, since you did not follow the king's decree, doesn't that make you as much of a traitor as you seem to think I am? The last I understood, failing to follow a king's decree was as much a capital offense as raising an army against him.”

“So you are raising an army!”

“Of course I am! And, yes, I've declared myself Magister of the Torvaran Empire. You see, my Lord Baron, King Lyrian's done something far worse than just go mad. He's allowed himself to be influenced, and perhaps even corrupted, by the Order of the Crimson Serpent, one of the most evil forces ever known. And I have to stop him.”

“You have to stop him?”

“Yes,” Garrold said. “But it would be better if I could have your forces on my side to help.”

The Baron's eyes narrowed. “But, if I pledge my forces to your cause, wouldn't that mean swearing fealty to you?”

“For the time being, yes, but, once everything is settled, we might be able to make other arrangements.”

“And what about the others who've sworn to you? Are you prepared to make other arrangements with them, as well? Once, as you say, everything is settled?”

Two other duchies – Orogrod and Velestar – had sworn fealty to Garrold over the course of the last two weeks. That wasn't supposed to have been made public, however, and Garrold wondered who the Baron's sources were. “Once King Lyrian and his benefactors have been defeated,” Garrold said, “I will consider anything up for consideration. Even freeing people from any oaths they may have made.”

“Difficult to hold power that way, son,” the Baron said.

“Perhaps, but maybe it isn't power than I'm after, either.”

“What else is there?”

“Peace. Prosperity. Perhaps, even, an end to suffering.”

“Noble ideals, Your Grace. But noble ideals hardly ever last for very long.”

“They lasted for more than two thousand years, once.”

“And even then crumbled to dust. Your Grace, I find that, as of now, I cannot yet give you an answer to your request. I must think on this discussion and confer with my people. Give me two days, and then we shall meet, again.” The Baron glanced around, again. “But, maybe, in a more private setting?”

Garrold nodded. “Very well, my Lord. In the meantime, the hospitality of Valewind is yours.”

“My thanks, Your Grace.” The Baron bowed – a little more deeply, this time – then turned and walked out of the great hall. Garrold noted with distaste that, as the Baron departed, he still carried himself in the same self-important manner as he had when he'd arrived.

“That went well,” Wilem said, stepping out of the shadows behind the throne.

Garrold snorted. “It could have gone better,” he said.

“True, but at least he's willing to think about it. Baron Tymothe of Blanchart isn't known for taking the time to think about things he isn't already at least partly ready to agree to.”

“I suppose.” Garrold looked at his brother. “Did Father ever have any dealings with him?”

“Yes. They used to be the greatest of friends, in fact.”

Garrold frowned. “Used to be? What happened?”

“The Baron loaned Father some money, once. It was right after Mother died, and, at the time, Father hadn't understood it was a loan. When Father made no effort to repay the Baron, Telvany and Blanchart very nearly went to war.”

“Did Father ever repay him?”

“Not to my knowledge.” Wilem looked at him. “Not that he ever really had a reason to. You see, I saw the letter he wrote Father when the money was given. It was never intended as a loan.”

“I knew he seemed like a petty little man,” Garrold said. He looked at the doors of the hall. “If only we didn't need him.”

“Yes,” Wilem said. “But we do. We need them all.”