Chapter 32 | Vallan
Vallan
My thoughts drift in and out, recalling the torrid memories of last night when I was deep inside Sephania and hearing her moans. It’s all I can do to not think about my current situation, with Master Barnabac rutting me from behind.
My palms are flat on the table. I’m leaning forward, my body still as Barnabac grunts and shoves his cock inside my hole, holding my hips as he moves.
My master has become more daring as of late. When he first called me to him weeks ago, and I came bearing his gift of a silver sword for my prolonged absence from his military coven, there was only a hint of perverse notions on his old, sagging face.
Then, last time I was here in his tower, he forced his cock into my mouth, which led to my anger getting the better of me downstairs, where I found myself in a quarrel with other Red Spawn—the legion of male and female thralls he’s turned.
Now, he’s forced himself on me completely, and there’s nothing I can do to stop him because of the hold his blood has over me. He’s thick inside my ass, pulsing as he takes what he thinks I owe him.
My heavy cock swings limply between my legs while his balls smack into mine. I don’t let out so much as a grunt or moan, and do everything to keep my mind elsewhere, free from this stone prison fortress in the Military Ward.
Luckily, I can bear the brunt of this pervasive rape and abuse better than most. I feel nothing.
Perhaps if I did feel something, I would hate myself for what has become of me—what Barnabac Craxon, the Red Butcher and Blood Baron of Olhav, has turned me into: a sheath for his pleasure and a hole for him to fill.
The only semblance of feelings I have, the only surge of sensations I get, is when I think of Sephania Lock. There is something special about my silverblood, and it doesn’t even take feeding on her to understand her immense power over me.
In the girl’s presence, I feel humane for the first time in decades. Almost like she brings back the empathetic human side of me—the version of me that existed before I was turned and has since been lost to time—simply by existing next to me.
I smile at the thought of her strong body, her ample curves, rolling and grinding against me. Her flashing smile and bullheadedness. Her whip-smart wit and brattiness, which gets her in trouble more often than not.
I’m lost to the girl, and there’s nothing Master Barnabac can do to steal that away from me, as much as he tries.
The Red Butcher grunts, hilts himself deep inside me, and holds my waist as he twitches. As he comes, he lets out a long groan. When he pulls back, his seed drips from my used body, down to the floor between my legs.
The evening with Sephania and the others lingers in my mind.
I almost don’t recognize he’s finished. When I look down, I see I’ve inadvertently shot cum across the table’s surface from thinking about my silverblood while my body involuntarily reacted from Barnabac slamming into me. I frown at my spilled seed.
Barnabac pats my back and draws my pants up around my ass. When I turn, his face is sweaty and blotched pink from exertion.
The disgusting bastard smiles cruelly at me. “Still as tight as the day I made you, boy,” he mutters, then takes a heavy seat at his chair with an exaggerated sigh.
“And you’re still as big and demanding as I remember, Master,” I reply, knowing that stroking his ego is the best thing for this moment.
His smile widens and he nods appreciatively.
It’s humorous to me, because my master knows how much bigger and stronger than him I am.
At least where it counts. He still numbers among the most proficient and terrifying warriors in all of Olhav, yet when it comes to his base desires, there are many who have him beat.
At the end of the night, Barnabac Craxon is nothing but a vile, weak, small-minded man. He’s been ruined by his own arrogance and ambition, turning so many bloodthralls that his mind has cracked and made him into a gods-touched lunatic.
Still, he’s a lunatic who demands complete obedience from his flock, and sex from whoever is closest. He seems to think doing this to me is a “reward” of some kind, for me, even though he saw me break the neck of one of his “sons,” Kamlirn, immediately after last time.
I keep my temper down, knowing it will only get me in trouble. Last time, I almost died because of my bloodrage—a curse I have thanks to the Blood Baron. I won’t let that happen again. There are too many important things to do. I’ll get my aggressions out another way, I think blithely.
Barnabac tilts his head and runs a hand down the single long braid of his gray beard. He stares at me for a long time, standing before him in obedience because there’s nothing I can do to break the complete hold he has over me.
This evening, after sleeping like the dead all through the day following my excursion with Sephania and the others, Master Barnabac called to my mind from across Olhav.
I was obliged to follow his call, and I snuck out of Manor Marquin before the final rays of sunlight had even fallen behind the mountains.
“I take it you’ve heard of the mess that transpired in Trithea Plaza, on the outskirts of my ward,” he tells me. His eyes narrow in scrutiny of my response.
I nod diligently. “Yes, Master. I saw as much as heard about it. The row of impaled heads you lined the streets with will surely see others off.”
He chuckles, nodding. “It was fun, killing all those petty peasants in retribution. Got them from Nuhav. Stirred up a proper tizzy on the Floorboards.”
He’s proud of the destruction and chaos he’s wrought. My ill-advised mind provokes me to ask, “Retribution, my lord? What did the humans do? I heard it was Overlady Mortis who attacked you.”
“What did the humans do? They existed, Vallan. That is all they need to do to deserve my fury.” He sits up, tapping his knees with his hands, like mass murder is merely a chain of events that must happen to get what he wants.
“Alacine Mortis was in the middle of a conflict when my soldiers and I arrived. Her fault was in traversing the Military Ward without my say-so. It was foolish of her, but not something we can’t work past.”
“You will meet with her, then?”
“Already have, boy.” Even as his smile fades, the scrutinizing gaze in his beady eyes enhances. “Tell me, son, do you have any idea who Alacine was fighting?”
His words allow no lie. There is a command in his voice that strikes to my core, seeping into my brain and pulling at me painfully.
With a quick wince, I nod, and spill the secrets I’ve been trying to keep close to my chest. “Lord Skartovius Ashfen and his court at Manor Marquin, Master. Myself included among them.”
Barnabac blinks. His face is slack, no bloodrage showing. “I thought as much.”
His answer surprises me. “You knew?”
“Why do you think I just fucked you like you owe me your soul?”
I resist responding how I’d like to, the words on the tip of my tongue. “That was the best you can do? Like my ‘soul owes you?’ I hardly felt a thing.”
“That cur, Skartovius Ashfen. He considers himself a lord, does he?”
My bulky shoulders rise and fall. “He is the lord of a manor, Master.”
Barnabac tsks in annoyance. “Of a dingy manse on the outskirts of Olhav. Not even located in a proper ward! The damned countryside horse-fucker.”
I tilt my head. “It sounds like Lord Ashfen angers you more than you’d like to admit, Master Barnabac.”
His nostrils flare and he jabs a beefy finger toward me. “Watch yourself, Vallan. I’m in a black mood.” He sits back when I stay silent, regarding me intently. “Why do you frolic with such vermin as Skartovius Ashfen?”
“Because of the woman at his side,” I say, trying to bite the words back in my teeth.
“Ah. Yes. Your Sephania.” Barnabac smiles fondly. I’ve told him this numerous times, yet his mind is so broken that every time we meet it’s like the first time we’ve seen each other in years. I can use that to my advantage, hopefully, to keep other secrets from him.
Because the problem with Barnabac and his ambition is that he is too forgetful to act on anyone moving against him. By the Damned, he likely slaughtered all those innocent humans in Nuhav to build his head-wall because he thought they truly had something to do with Trithea Plaza.
What he doesn’t realize is that killing so many has only heightened the stakes against him. If only the humans were more powerful, or had allies—like Skartovius and I, or Vanison Shirin the silversmith—maybe something would be done to keep the Blood Baron in check.
His unchecked power and broken mind have made him complacent. He sits up here in his tower, on his chair, rarely leaving unless something happens in his direct line of sight, such as the ambush at Trithea Plaza.
“I will grant you leave to continue harboring with the silly lord and your whore,” Barnabac tells me.
My muscles clench at the way he speaks of Sephania. If our connection was any less—his hold over me any weaker—I would charge him without a second thought. My bloodrage demands I defend my silverblood’s honor.
“Keep watching them. When I call upon you, tell me of their doings. Eventually, if their transgressions rise to an actual threat, perhaps I will present our case to the Five Ministries.” He mutters to himself, “The Damned knows they could raise a sword every once in a while.”
I bow low, from the hip. “Your will is mine, Master Barnabac.”
As I travel the winding stone staircase down to the bailey, I curse myself for all I’ve told him. I’ve made Skar’s position weaker, because now he can use any intelligence from me to reform a bond with Alacine Mortis, when we were so close to fracturing their alliance.
Alas, I have no control over what I say in his presence. It’s something that cannot change. Unless drinking Sephania’s Loreblood is something that could sever our bond, like it does to weaker dhampir and commonbloods.
The thought entices me, yet I shake my head at the foolish notion. I refuse to put Sephania in danger for the sake of my sanity and protection. It’s not who I am.
As I leave the bailey, I get it from all corners: the various Red Spawn training on the grounds, throwing insults at me, calling me “Master’s Whore” and “Cock Champion” and other degrading titles, trying to get a rise.
This time, I manage to keep my temper down without breaking any bones or drawing any blood.
I must admit, as I walk through the raised portcullis on my way out of Castle Galfeld—named after Master Barnabac’s father—I feel rather proud of myself at my non-reaction to the taunts and jibes.
Because seeking revenge is usually exactly who I am.
I have a better idea to temper my frustrations than picking fights with my Red Spawn brethren.
I return to Manor Marquin without incident.
Skartovius speaks with a group of court vampires in one of the downstairs studies, ordering them around for any upcoming conflict.
I don’t know what they’re talking about and I don’t care—Skartovius rarely keeps me up to speed on the day-to-day operations of his coven.
As I pass the door, he calls me in. The three commonbloods in attendance look over their shoulders at me, eyes widening at the sight of my large stature.
“Where were you?” he asks from the front of the room.
“Checking on the North Mines,” I lie. It’s shameful that the lie comes so easily, but what else can I say? I don’t want to do battle with Skartovius Ashfen. Not right now.
“And?”
“As I suspected, no enemies have returned. Things have calmed down and Cordea is in command. Mining work has resumed.”
“And the interfolk workers? Are they traumatized?”
At losing friends and family? “The halfkeepers, you mean?”
“You heard me. They’re the same damned thing.”
My eyes narrow. “Aye. But one of them is the Olhav name, brother. The other is the Nuhav name. You choose the Nu—”
“Does it matter which name I fucking choose, Vallan?” he snaps.
Only because it speaks to your loyalties, brother. Clearly, Lord Ashfen is on edge after everything that’s happened recently. He’s holding onto his makeshift rebellion by a thread, and things are not going swimmingly.
I bow my head, opting out of furthering the conflict. “No, brother. It doesn’t matter.”
“Good. You’re the last man I’d think would care about fucking formalities.”
“Quite right, Skartovius. Is that all?”
He flaps a hand at me and I depart.
Further down the hall, I find Garroway in one of the work rooms. He has his daggers and swords splayed out on a table, dragging them across a whetstone to sharpen, one after the other. His eyes are fixated on his work and he doesn’t see me taking up the doorway to his side.
“Good thing you’re keeping them sharp, cub,” I say from the door.
Startled, he glances over and curses as he nicks the blade at the wrong angle on the whetstone and sends sparks fluttering around his hands. “Dammit, Vall! Why did you distract me?”
Better question: Why is everyone so tight and up-in-arms around here? I’m the one who just got unwillingly defiled, not you two.
“Where is Sephania?” I ask, ignoring his outburst.
“Sleeping. We wore her out.” He tosses a smart smile at me.
“Still? It’s been nighttime for hours.”
“No matter how long she acclimates, brother, she will always be a human. Being up all night and sleeping all day is unnatural to her.”
I rub the back of my neck. “Right.” My hand moves to the handle of my war-axe near my shoulder. “How are those spindly fingers of yours doing these days, cub?”
“Why?”
“I’d like the list her friend wrote, which I assume is in her room. Preferably, I’d like to obtain said list without waking her.”
“Sister Cyprilis’ list? All the humans on it are dead. We made sure of it. It was quite the bonding experience.”
I frown. “I know. I was there. I’m not talking about the humans.”
“You want to find the vampires on the list?”
I tap my axe again. This is my idea of getting my frustrations out. “Like I said, cub, I’m glad you’re keeping those blades sharp. Buckle up and let’s go.”