The Eye of Charon

by Richard A. Knaak

  Tarantia was also filled with statues, so many that a young Nermesa had once wondered if they outnumbered the living. They were most often found standing before the steps of public structures and were generally of past important citizens involved with that particular place. Others raised in more open venues consisted of famous generals, past kings still admired, and the like. All were painted to appear very lifelike, even to the strands in their garments and the color of their eyes. Often, people would glance in the direction of one, feeling as if that figure stared down at them. Even Nermesa, born and raised in Tarantia, more than once found himself meeting the gaze of this statue or that.

  The palace itself, situated behind him on somewhat of a hill, was a towering, walled edifice with battlements. The banner of King Conan fluttered atop many points, including the palace’s own high towers, the tallest in all Aquilonia. Guards walked the outer walls of the king’s residence, most of them Black Dragons like him.

  Not all that far away from the palace stood another tower, an ominous dank leviathan whose lit upper windows at night gave it the semblance of some terrible demon’s visage. The Iron Tower was where the worst criminals were imprisoned. Originally built as a keep, it had, under the tyrant Namedides, been a feared place into which many enemies of the king had vanished. Under Conan, it now served a more noble purpose, but still the captain was never very comfortable around it.

  Nermesa paused at the vast stone bridge over the Khorotas River, watching briefly as boats laden with Aquilonia’s best goods headed south toward Argos. It did not surprise him at all that the three largest bore the armed heron of Sibelio.

  Beyond the post where five Black Dragons stood watch, Nermesa spotted a contingent of breastplated Gundermen, a part of the normal City Guard. One of the men reminded him of Morannus, which gave Nermesa an idea. Perhaps he could speak to Morannus alone and convince him to whisper in the ear of Orena. The Gunderman was one of the few who might have influence over her. Of course, it likely went against the bodyguard’s loyalty even where Nermesa was concerned, but at present it was the only notion the captain had.

  As usual, the crowd was a mix of many types, from short, broadly built Argossean traders to swarthy Bossonian archers in their traditional brown-and-green forest garb. Like the Gundermen, the Bossonians made up a large and valuable part of the kingdom’s military. Nermesa had met several of their kinsmen in the Marches, located just east of the Pictish wilderness and a natural buffer against incursions by the tattooed barbarians of the west. They were trustworthy fighters and good men. Many of them had sacrificed themselves against the Picts, Nemedians, and other foes in the name of King Conan.

  Nermesa had just begun to leave the area of the bridge when he saw another Black Dragon approaching on horseback. The long blond hair and jutting chin told him that it could only be Paulo, a member of the fabled unit for even less time than Nermesa. Their relative newness in the ranks had brought them together as friends. In some ways, Paulo reminded Nermesa of a more noble-born Quentus, his servant and good companion who had joined the military with the young Klandes, only to be gruesomely killed in the west.

  “There you be!” called the other knight, eyes brooding. “Been looking all over for you, I have!” Paulo hailed from a northern part of Aquilonia near the Border Kingdoms, but his accent and manner of speech were due to his mother’s being from some still more northerly land.

  Paulo’s grim manner immediately put Nermesa on highest alert. Gripping the hilt of his sword—a sword given to him as a gift for meritorious duty by Conan himself—the captain asked, “What is it? Has something happened to his majesty?”

  This momentarily brought a grin to the blond knight’s ugly face. “Always worried about him, aren’t you? No, nothing like that! Himself wants to see you!”

  “Himself” was how some of the other Black Dragons referred to Pallantides . . . at least when the general was not within earshot.

  Nermesa grimaced. It was too soon to hope that he had made amends for the earlier debacle. Surely, Pallantides had decided on some even lower post for him as further punishment.

  The pair returned to the palace, where the general actually stood waiting for Nermesa. The young Klandes prepared for the worst.

  “There you are! About time, Captain Nermesa! Don’t go far away, Sir Paulo. This concerns you as well.”

  “Me?” The blond knight gave Nermesa a quick glance that seemed to condemn his friend for somehow drawing him into his troubles.

  “Give your horses over to someone else and come with me.”

  Doing as commanded, the pair followed Pallantides deep into the palace. Even with his limp—the result of a much harsher injury at the Battle of Valkia—the tall commander nearly outpaced the two younger men. As they walked the long, marble halls, Nermesa sought to keep his mind off his imminent fate by eyeing the various reliefs lining the walls. Some were of past kings and their accomplishments, but many were new and dealt with the colored-yet-admirable past of Aquilonia’s Cimmerian-born monarch. There was Conan against Xaltotun, the undead wizard. Conan leading his army against the Nemedians. Conan and the Black Dragons fighting off King Strabonus. The king by himself, slaying some monstrous serpentlike creature. And on and on.

  They were the pet project of Queen Zenobia, a woman very intent on reminding all of the exploits of her husband. More than once in the past, many Aquilonians had seemed to forget what the former mercenary had done for them, thus allowing pretenders and outsiders to wreak havoc on the kingdom. Zenobia sought to have this never happen again, and she was aided in her efforts by Pallantides, Count Trocero, and Sir Prospero of the southwestern province of Poitain—an area ardently supporting Conan—and even Publius, the heavyset high councilor and chancellor.

  But while the reliefs reinforced Nermesa’s admiration for his lord, they also served to remind him of his failure. That failure further magnified when he realized just where they were heading.

  King Conan had been born in a vast, untamed land, and so, even after many years among the “civilized” peoples, sometimes he acted as if the walls closed in on him. The Black Dragons understood and respected this, for they saw their liege as the great cat he utilized as his symbol. The palace was a beautiful cage, a necessary evil, and, like a caged lion, Conan had to pace it or find a place where he could at least pretend he was out in the open. Thus it was that he spent much time alone or with Zenobia on the wide, banistered balcony that gave him the best view of the rolling plains and woods north of Tarantia. It was always the balcony facing north, even if in the opinions of some the views in other directions were more breathtaking.

  There was no need for Pallantides or the guards on duty at the entrance to announce them. Conan had apparently known of their presence long before they reached the entrance, for he had already turned to face them.

  “About time, Pallantides,” he remarked gruffly. Under a stern brow, he eyed the other two. “Captain Nermesa. Sir Paulo.”

  Next to Nermesa, the other knight swallowed in surprise. The king seemed to know the name of every man serving him, even if that man had not been with him long. In Nermesa’s mind, it was yet another reason why Conan commanded such loyalty. Those willing to die for him were not simply nameless drones; they were brothers in arms.

  “The delay was unavoidable, your majesty,” returned the general. Neither he nor the men with him knelt before Conan. Public affairs demanded such protocol lest outsiders think the king’s followers respected him little, but, in private, the former soldier felt it demeaning to his men.

  Conan grunted. “Get on with it, then.”

  “As you command.” When it came to the Black Dragons, the king often let Pallantides relate his wishes. The king would interject when he thought necessary. “What I say is for your ears alone. Even those you travel with must not know the full extent. Understood?” When both men nodded, Pallantides continued, “Captain Nermesa. Sir Paulo. The trade agreement teeters on the brink of failure. With it, the king hope
d to build a common need among the lands, one that might stave off future bloodshed. Without it, we are certain to face new conflicts with many of our neighbors, something which cannot, even if victory is ours in each case, be good for Aquilonia in the long run.”

  The two knights quickly glanced at one another. They knew what stock Conan put in the agreement and its passing. How, though, did that affect them?

  “Captain Nermesa. You know the reports of missing or slaughtered caravans coming from nearly every realm. Even Nemedia has evidence that their people were slain . . . and after they had brought their goods to Tarantia and headed back laden with valuables purchased here. Those cases mirror most of the others dealing with Aquilonia itself.”

  The suggestion was clear. If most of the lost wagons had only recently left inner Aquilonia, then it gave the appearance that their country was at least in part responsible for the crimes.

  “If I may,” remarked Nermesa, recalling something. When General Pallantides indicated he should go on, the captain said, “My own House—and I believe that of the Baron Sibelio—have both reported lost men and goods, too. Aquilonia is not untouched, as some might claim.” He did not mention any name, but knew that all would think of the Nemedian ambassador, Zoran, and his foul words.

  “All lost within the borders of Aquilonia and far less in total value than what many of our neighbors reported.” The general looked to the king. “Though not unconsidered, yes, your majesty?”

  “We’ve lost few, but even one is too much.” Conan turned to face the north again. “Too much when you’re a king.”

  Nermesa knew that he was speaking more about the lives than the valuables. “How may we serve, your majesty?”

  The muscular king looked back, but it was Pallantides who answered. “There is a caravan leaving for southern Nemedia. Zoran plans to go with it, bearing with him missives for King Tarascus. Zoran’s personal guard is good, but too small under the circumstances. There are also men accompanying the caravans, but they are mostly hirelings of the House owning the wagons. King Conan has offered a contingent of the Black Dragons to ride with the caravan—using the ambassador as part of the reason—and the owner has agreed.”

  So Nermesa was to be a guard for an arrogant foreigner, little better than the man’s own help. It pained him that Paulo and other comrades had to share his misfortune.

  But then, Pallantides added, “That is your official capacity. What the king truly desires—and what his majesty is placing you, Captain Nermesa, in charge of—is finding out the truth about these charges.”

  The captain straightened. “Sir?”

  “We need a trusted man who’s experienced commanding in the field, someone who’s adaptable. His majesty decided on you.”

  Nermesa looked to the king, who nodded grimly. “I will not let you down this time!” Bolontes’ son blurted. “I swear!”

  “No one here thinks that you did that evening, Nermesa.” The corner of Pallantides’s mouth curled up. “But I’m certain that Zoran and many others do. They will misjudge you. The king is interested to find out what their error in judgment might cause to happen. What it might reveal about these attacks.”

  He had not disappointed his lord after all! Nermesa tried to stay focused, but hearing that with King Conan standing before him and thus giving it validity almost overwhelmed the young Klandes.

  But it would not do to create another disaster by not paying attention. He listened carefully to the general’s final words.

  “Captain Nermesa, you will treat Zoran very respectfully and not take anger at any words he or anyone else in the caravan may say about the Teban ambassador’s death. You must pretend to know your place. Sir Paulo, I’ve seen you fight alongside the captain and have recommended to his majesty that you would be a good second.” It was a promotion for the newest member of the elite unit, and Paulo thrust out his already-prominent jaw in a smile. Returning his attention to Nermesa, the veteran officer added, “Watch and listen. Should you make it to Nemedia without incident, you will travel back with the next caravan. We have the word of the owner that it will take a trail leading it along where the last caravan was likely ambushed. Investigate all you can, but at the same time, I expect you to do your part to keep the wagons and their drivers safe. Is everything clear?”

  “Aye, General.”

  “You may decline this mission if you like. This is beyond the dictates of the Black Dragons—” He nodded proudly when Nermesa immediately shook his head. “As I thought. You have a good head on your shoulders, young Klandes. You proved that not only in the Westermarck, but here at home. That’s why the king trusts you with this task.” General Pallantides looked to King Conan. “I believe that covers the essentials, your majesty. The lesser details I can give them as they prepare.”

  The Cimmerian, arms behind him and legs spread in a military stance, again studied the duo. To Paulo, he gave another nod, but to Nermesa, he said, “May your sword be strong, Captain, and your wit stronger.”

  Nermesa bowed his head. “Your majesty.”

  Conan once more turned to the rail. Pallantides indicated that the audience was over, but as the trio stepped into the palace and beyond the guards, he said, “Paulo, you go ahead. I’ve a last detail I forgot to discuss with the captain.”

  “Yes, sir,”

  When the northern knight had departed, the general leaned close to Nermesa. “One thing I didn’t bother to mention, because it is of a personal nature to you. The wagons of both the caravan you leave with and the one with which you return are the property of House Sibelio. Baron Antonus Sibelio, married little more than a year to a certain Lady Orena Lenaro, whom I recall you know.” The veteran knight’s expression revealed nothing. “This will not be a problem, will it?”

  At first, the revelation made Nermesa wonder the same thing, but immediately after it occurred to him that perhaps this was a blessing in disguise. If he kept Antonus’ caravans safe, it would give him a decided advantage when he sought reconciliation with Orena through her husband. “No, General. Definitely not.”

  “Good man.”

  They were suddenly interrupted by one of the sentries near the balcony entrance. “General Pallantides, his majesty just commanded me to find you! He requests your presence back on the balcony. Said it concerns the trial of Baron Brocas of Torh.”

  Pallantides’ dark face grew darker yet at mention of the man. He looked Nermesa’s way. “Another fool caught up in an ill-advised plot against the king. In the end, his greed was greater than his cleverness. I’m suggesting that if he’s found guilty—which he will be, with the evidence I have—that he be executed and his body left at Traitor’s Common.” Traitor’s Common was an area outside the city where, traditionally, the corpses of men such as Brocas were thrown there as a warning to others. However, Conan was not as eager to use the Common as his predecessors. With a sigh, Pallantides added, “But his majesty will likely decide on Os Harku, since the island prison is near the Bossonian Marches and the people hurt most by the plot were all innocent Bossonians.”

  Captain Nermesa knew little of the events, but nodded understanding. “I’ll begin gathering my things, General.”

  “Good man. I’ll meet with you later.” The commander of the Black Dragons started to limp off, then suddenly called back, “Oh, Nermesa?”

  “Yes, my lord?” He waited for Pallantides to give him some last-minute change in orders, but the elder knight had something else in mind.

  “I said you have a good head on your shoulders, young Klandes. Be exceptionally wary. For the sake of many, I’d like you to keep it there.”

  And with that, he walked off.

  3

  THERE WAS ENOUGH time to bid farewell to his parents, but the one other person with whom Nermesa would have liked to have spoken he was unable to meet with owing to his duties and his imminent departure. Nermesa had much he desired to say to Telaria, but the opportunity never arose. Even when he had a free moment, her duties to the queen k
ept the young lady-in-waiting from him.

  He was in the midst of saddling his horse for the journey when the note came through one of the palace servants. The young servingwoman scurried off immediately after giving it to him, allowing no chance for her to explain the contents.

  Telaria’s handwriting was familiar to him. The note was short and clearly written in haste, but it still said much.

  My heart goes on this journey with you. Please be

  careful, Nermesa.

  Underneath, she left only the first letter of her name. The missive lightened his heart, even if he had no time in which to compose a response. Stuffing the note in his saddlebag, Bolontes’ son quickly mounted, then joined his men.

  Nermesa rode to the eastern gate of the city, where the caravan awaited. He was followed by a contingent of twenty other Black Dragons. Nermesa arrived at his destination to find Ambassador Zoran already quite impatient even though the Black Dragons were more than an hour ahead of schedule.

  “I trust this is not a precursor of what to expect from you, Captain,” he said, gazing down his nose at the Aquilonian from atop his elegant chestnut mare. Zoran wore robes of red and gold, and the chains dangling from around his neck incorporated rubies and sapphires. His long, thick mane of gray hair had been freshly brushed by one of two servants who rode a few paces behind. He wore a scarf to shield his face from the sun. Only the sword in the gleaming sheath at his side gave any indication that he might be other than a helpless, jaded aristocrat. It was Nermesa’s suspicion that much of Zoran’s appearance and manner were an act for others, but he could prove nothing.