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.”