Behind him, slanted over his chair, is the huge war-axe he favors for battle. Like me. In fact, it was Barnabac who taught me to wield the axe in such an efficient way, many decades ago.
“My son,” he says in a gruff voice, unsmiling. “You’ve returned to where you belong.”
I nod. I am not his blood child, but he refers to all his flock as his sons and daughters . . . likely because he forgets all our names.
The two men I passed on the stairs were bloodthralls to Barnabac Craxon. So were the ones outside fixing their armor. There are thirty-six of us in all, last I checked. A full legion of bloodthralls under Barnabac Craxon’s control. He is a ferocious general and military strategist, called the Blood Baron and the Red Butcher depending on which enemy you ask. He is a veteran of countless wars and victories, and it is because of his stalwart champions—his bloodthralls, his kin, his Red Spawn—that he’s been able to elevate to such degrees and been so triumphant in Olhavian society.
For the past fifty-odd years, he has controlled the Military Ward with an iron fist.
I’ve been lucky. Having command of so many men and women, having their voices in his head, means Overlord Craxon has not been able to keep tallies on all of us as much as he would like. It’s this distraction that has enabled me to act how I do, complete the missions I must. If Master took a deeper look inside my skull, he would know more about myacquaintanceship with Skartovius Ashfen and Garroway Kuffich—even Sephania Lock, I worry.
Another drawback of having so many bloodthralls: It has made Barnabac Craxon quite mad. It’s there in the way his red eyes search me—blank one moment, creasing with some unseen confusion or distraction the next.
“I apologize for my absence, Master,” I say, bowing lower to the man than anyone else in Olhav. It’s the only proper way to regard the being who turned me into a vampire and gave me eternal life.
I might hate what Master Barnabac did to me before I became a vampire, but those petty thoughts and emotions have long since fled my body. Now the only things I feel are what he imparted me with when he turned me: the bloodrage that fuels our bloodline and makes us demons on the battlefield, and the incessant urge to breed and mate which makes us demons in the bedroom.
Everything I am, I have thanks to the Red Butcher.
Everything I despise, I have thanks to the Red Butcher.
“What’s this?” he asks, nodding his chin to the bundle strewn across my shoulder.
I bring it down and open it, showing Barnabac the silver sword inside. “A gift for you, my lord, as an apology for being away for so long.”
He stares at the silver, frowning. “Still working the North Mines then, I see. The pattern of this silver blade tells me as much.”
“Aye, Master. As you’ve commanded.”
Barnabac snorts and sits on his chair. He does not use a throne, opting for something simple and utilitarian—something becoming of a soldier. “The dandy Liolen may control the mines with their bulging coin purse, my son, but make no mistake, it isthe soldiers of Olhav whocommandit.” He thumps a fist into his armored chest with a rattling clank.
There are agreements between the Five Ministries which are meant to provide checks and balances to each other’s power and authority. Spymistress Mortis, for instance, uses the Judgment Ward prisons of Overlord Aramastun Wyvox for her interrogations.
In some ways, it is Barnabac who holds the most power of the Five Ministries because he holds thearmy. Though mercenaries abound in Olhav, Barnabac controls the only honor-bound military. As such, he is a shadow partner to the most damning plot of land in Olhav, which theoretically belongs to the Commerce Ward but is truthfully protected by Overlord Craxon’s soldiers: the North Mines.
With both the army and access to silver, which kills vampires cleaner than anything else, there’s nothing this savage can’t accomplish. If a coup were to form among the Five Ministries, I’ve no doubt it would be the Red Butcher spearheading the operation.
Ifhe was smart enough to realize his overwhelming strength, that is. Because as able-bodied, strong, and mad as he is, intelligence has never been his strength. He may be a shrewd tactician on the field, but he is no match for the cunning of specimens like Alacine Mortis or Aramastun Wyvox. Even the “dandy” Liolen Sesk and the mad zealot Valenthia Yurlyth probably outmatch him where wit is concerned.
His lack of a sharp mind is likely the only thing keeping the Five Ministries from each other’s throats. I have to keep that thought buried so he doesn’t sense me thinking it.
“So,” he says, tapping his knee with a gauntleted hand. “A silver sword. Is it a metaphor, Vallan? A suggestion?”
I thread my brow. “How you use the sword is your prerogative, my lord. It’s merely a gift, nothing more.”
He laughs. “Nothing is ever so direct, my son.”
“It is with me.”
He lets out another belly-rumbling laugh. It goes on for a few seconds too long, and I think the madness takes hold for a moment there. “That’s why I like you, boy. You’re uncomplicated. The sword will be fine.” He flaps a hand at me and I drop the bundle onto a nearby table. “That is not why I’ve called you here.”
I resist looking surprised. My face is stoic and flat as ever, betraying no emotion.
He leans forward in his seat. The man’s face, well-muscled yet sagging at the neck from when he was a sixty-year-old human before being turned, looks suddenly devious. “These miscreants and foolhardy noblebloods you’ve been associating with. Tell me about them.”
Barnabac’s words make me blink. Thepullfrom our bond is all-encompassing now, solely focused on me. It’s a connection I can’t resist when my master puts his force behind it.
A wave of nausea pulses through me, quickly melding into acceptance and the desire to please my master. “They seek to undo the Five Ministries,” I say at last. My words are measured, my stature straight-backed like I am giving a report to a general.
