The Eye of Charon

by Richard A. Knaak

  “I will not fail in my duty,” the captain answered, acting as if still frustrated by his failure to save the Teban representative.

  Zoran gave him a bland smile. “Let us hope not, for all our sakes.”

  Nermesa met with the caravan master, a gruff, eye-patched former soldier named Darius, hired on a year before by House Sibelio. Lighting a long, clay pipe, he welcomed Nermesa, then pointed the pipe toward the Nemedian, who was engrossed in giving some last instructions to the assistant he was leaving in his place. “I seen you two talkin’ before you came to me. Friend of yours?”

  “I only know the ambassador through official channels,” Nermesa responded carefully.

  “Which means you find him as much a dolt as I do, eh, lad? If we’re lucky, maybe a rabbit will cause his dandy horse to shy and we’ll be rid of ’im.”

  The captain made a noncommittal sound, then bid the caravan master good-bye. Returning to Paulo and the other Dragons, he set out getting everyone into their proper positions. Nermesa sent four men to the front of the column, then spread all but himself, Paulo, and the third officer—a Pellian named Augustus—along the two flanks of the caravan. Nermesa had Paulo take command of those on the right, leaving the left to the stern-faced Augustus.

  As for Nermesa, he took up a position on the left where he could keep an eye not only on both the front and rear, but the good ambassador. The caravan’s own guards, mostly hired mercenaries, kept closest to the wagons, although a pair each did ride up front and at the rear.

  The column got under way by midmorning. Some onlookers eyed the party with minor interest, Black Dragons were not the usual escort for anything but a royal excursion. Of course, the presence of the Nemedian ambassador gave some excuse.

  With over a dozen wagons laden with trading goods, the pace was slow but at least steady. The wagon master proved a diligent man whose military training soon showed. Under his control, the hired guards kept alert and ready. Baron Sibelio had hired well, and Nermesa began to wonder if he would accomplish anything at all on this journey.

  If the first three days were any indication, his concerns had merit. The weather was pleasant, and the trek toward the mountains between Nemedia and Corinthia went without incident. The only thieves that the wooded areas through which they passed offered were squirrels who sought to investigate the wagons for nuts.

  There were three main routes by which to reach Belverus, Nemedia’s capital. One was to ride north near the Border Kingdoms and circle around the mountains there, passing the city of Hanumar before reaching Belverus. Had the baron sought business in Hanumar, they would have taken that route. However, much to Paulo’s disappointment—he still having family along that path—that was not to be.

  The second route would have taken them directly through the mountains; but while in Aquilonia it was spring, in the high passes winter still clung to its reign. Another month, and the snow would melt, but at this point it was still far too treacherous for heavy wagons.

  And so, it was to the southeast they traveled. The chain ended just shy of the borders of not only the two kingdoms, but Ophir as well. Nermesa hoped that, so near to the three other borders, he might pick up some word pertaining to his investigations. He also saw the area as an ideal place where cutthroats might finally attempt to take the caravan. He alerted Paulo and Augustus of this notion, and both agreed with the soundness of his reasoning. The wagon master, too, believed that they would be at their greatest danger there and had already prepared his own men with that in mind.

  But the area was some days away, and so the guardians of the caravan could only watch and wait as they journeyed. Nermesa almost welcomed the first hints of the mountain range, his tension having grown with each quiet day.

  Every night that the caravan made camp, the Black Dragons set up a perimeter watch of their own beyond that of the wagon’s contingent. The elite fighters kept in contact by a series of whistled signals known only to their own, each with subtle intonations that would make it all but impossible for anyone to imitate them properly without extensive practice. As commander, Nermesa also checked in with each man through a set of his own personal signals, further complicating any hope that listening brigands might have of tricking the knights.

  Confident in their safety, Nermesa met with Darius to discuss what, if anything, he knew about wagons lost near their present vicinity.

  “Aye, there was one small caravan taken about an hour’s ride from here,” answered the grizzled veteran. “Leastwise, that was its last known location.”

  “Will we pass the site in the morning?”

  “Should come close enough so that you can take a look at the area—if’n there’s anything to look at, that is.”

  Nermesa was determined to do just that. It would be his first chance to actually try to do something to accomplish his mission.

  Making the rounds one last time, Nermesa left Paulo and Augustus in charge of the perimeter. Each evening, the three commanding knights used staggered shifts to ensure that there were always two of them on duty. Certain that any attempt to raid the caravan would come much later in the night, Nermesa always wanted to get his first rest period over so that he would be awake and on hand later.

  But before he could reach his bedroll, he crossed paths with the ambassador. Zoran gave him an indifferent nod.

  “All well, Captain?”

  “The camp is well guarded, Ambassador.”

  “I should hope so.” The Nemedian sniffed the air. “The stench of Ophir already reaches us, and if the wind changes, so will that of Corinthia.”

  Nermesa was careful only to nod for fear that any remark would draw Aquilonia into Zoran’s observations. Fortunately, the ambassador seemed to lose interest in him after that, striding off to his wide sumptuous tent without the least farewell.

  Finally reaching his more modest arrangements, Nermesa bedded down. He had quickly grown accustomed to sleeping on a thin blanket in full armor, something that would have made his mother aghast. It had been a necessary learning experience; those fighters who could not quickly learn to get rest wherever they could soon made fatal mistakes as a result of exhaustion.

  Nermesa at first lay there—helmet at his side—calculating his next possible move now that they were near the shared border. However, as he had already done so more than once during the day, his thoughts soon drifted to images of home—including his parents, his favored haunts . . . and Telaria Lenaro. With the words of her brief missive playing through his mind, Nermesa gradually fell off into slumber—

  And snapped up into a sitting position after what seemed to him only a moment as shouts and cries filled the night.

  In the light of the nearest fire, hooded men swarmed into the campsite.

  He flung aside his blanket and drew the gleaming sword given to him for slaying the bandit, Khatak. The three emeralds in the silver hilt glittered even in the dim light of the campfire, and the rearing lion etched farther in seemed to strengthen Nermesa’s hand as he grabbed his helmet and raced to meet the first attacker.

  The knight confronted a figure whose hood was pulled tight over his head, with only eyeholes giving evidence of any humanity underneath. Leather armor covered the torso and legs. The bandit came roaring at Nermesa, three wicked slashes of his curved sword momentarily forcing the Black Dragon back.

  But Nermesa quickly recovered, parrying the last strike, then counterattacking. He forced his adversary to the defensive, finally running him through when the latter’s booted foot stumbled over a rock.

  No sooner did Nermesa slay that one than another leapt at him out of the dark. More alert now, the captain made short work of this new threat, thrusting the keen blade through the shadowed figure’s throat.

  Taking a moment to collect his thoughts, Nermesa listened. From all around him came the sounds of battle. In the light of the fires, he made out murky forms struggling with one another. More than one body lay sprawled on the ground, and several of those appeared to be the hired
guards.

  But what had happened with the other Black Dragons? How could the situation have grown so dire so swiftly?

  He let out a shrill whistle and was greeted a moment later by Paulo’s own signal. However, there was no similar response from Augustus. Cursing, Nermesa turned to where the Pellian should have been posted.

  On his way, he passed the Nemedian’s tent. Duty forced him to detour to the entrance in order to see if Zoran was in danger. “Ambassador! Ambassador! Are you—”

  But there was no sign of Zoran or his servants in the tent. The Nemedian’s belongings were strewn about as if by a whirlwind, and several pouches lay slashed open. Nermesa belatedly noticed that two of the walls within had been severely cut, the gaps large enough for men to slip through. Whether that meant Zoran had fled or others had entered and kidnapped him, Bolontes’ son could not say.

  He could no longer concern himself about the ambassador. The fate of the entire caravan was at stake. Tearing away from the tent, Nermesa continued on to Augustus’ location.

  As he neared, the captain came across two men struggling. One was Darius, the other a hooded brigand. Darius was an able man, but his attacker loomed over him. The two were locked close, with the wagon master’s adversary clearly gaining the advantage.

  Wasting not the slightest thought, Nermesa fell upon Darius’ foe. Caught now from two directions, the bandit sought to flee. The wagon master quickly ran him through from the side.

  As the man fell, Darius grinned at the Black Dragon. “Thanks for the assist, lad!”

  “Have you seen Sir Augustus? He was supposed to be in charge of this area!”

  “That’s not the ugly soul with the pale hair is it? If you mean the other one, the last I saw ’im, ’e was heading out to speak with one of your sentries there.” Darius pointed with his weapon.

  Nermesa started off in the direction. “My thanks! Tighten your forces! Keep them from the wagons!”

  Darius shouted something, but it was lost in the sounds of struggle. Ahead, Nermesa heard swordplay. In the wooded area before him, he made out a dim form doing battle against not one, but three villains. His hopes rose.

  But while it was a Black Dragon, it turned out not to be Sir Augustus. In the dark, Nermesa did not recognize the man’s face, but one Black Dragon always came to the aid of another, and so he leapt next to his comrade. Two of the hooded attackers took him on, enabling the other man to concentrate better on the remaining one.

  Gritting his teeth, Nermesa met one blade after another. He quickly judged the man on the left as the better sword and focused his attention accordingly.

  To his side, the other Black Dragon darted in, wounding his own foe in the arm. As the attacker pulled away, the other Aquilonian finished him off with a deep stripe across the stomach.

  But, in doing so, he left himself open to the better of Nermesa’s own adversaries. The villain pulled back from Nermesa, lunging for the distracted soldier.

  “No!” the captain shouted, but there was nothing he could do. The other Black Dragon twisted in an attempt to avoid the strike, but too late. The bandit’s blade cut a red river across his throat.

  Snarling, Nermesa instinctively thrust, putting a sudden end to his lesser opponent. He turned on the final fighter, beating him back relentlessly. The bandit tried twice to slow the captain, but Nermesa’s attack was fueled by anger and determination to such a degree that each attempt by his foe now seemed laughingly slow and inept. He cut one bloody arc over the man’s chest, then another, the leather armor doing little to stop the Aquilonian’s keenly honed blade.

  His adversary turned to flee. Not caring at his unchivalrous behavior, Nermesa caught the man in the back.

  Only when he was the last left standing did Nermesa pause to catch his breath. Behind him, the battle still raged, but, at the moment, all he could do was stand.

  As the pounding in his chest eased some, the Aquilonian suddenly became aware that he was not alone anymore. Tightening his grip on the sword, he spun to face his new enemy—

  And beheld what he could not imagine as anything human.

  It was clad in black robes that flowed with and against the wind as if they themselves had life. Although the shadowed, hooded figure had arms and the general shape of a man, those arms ended in twisted limbs with taloned fingers . . . fingers pointed at Nermesa.

  But worst was what lurked within that hood. A deep blackness, as if nothing existed.

  Nothing, that is, save one gleaming, monstrous crimson orb situated just above where the nose would have been.

  The captain froze, so stunned was he by the unearthly sight. Only when he heard the low, unintelligible whispering and noticed that the fingers gestured, did Nermesa of Klandes register the imminent danger.

  With a cry, he threw himself toward the specter, demon—whatever it might be. Unfortunately, his momentum was short-lived, for his foot caught some large, heavy object on the ground. Nermesa toppled, falling flat on his face. His sword slid from his hand.

  He immediately rolled over . . . and at last discovered the reason why Sir Augustus had not given any warning. The Pellian lay flat on the ground, eyes staring up into the night heavens. Nermesa could see no immediate mark on him, but one touch was enough to assure him that Augustus was very, very dead.

  A fate surely awaiting Nermesa if he did not act quickly.

  Flinging himself to where he had last seen his sword, Nermesa tried to decide what to do against the one-eyed fiend. If it could slay a steady fighter such as the Pellian with but a glance, then Nermesa would be hard-pressed to defeat it. Still, he could not just stand there and die.

  He rose to discover the ghostly form gone. Nermesa spun in a circle, certain that in some direction he would find it waiting.

  But although it was nowhere to be found, the Aquilonian quickly realized that not all was well. The area had grown deathly quiet. There was no sound of battle. Nothing. Not even the creatures of the night.

  Until there came whispering.

  It was identical to the voice of the fiery-eyed demon. It came low, and from all sides of him. Again, Nermesa turned fruitlessly in a circle.

  Then, a rustling noise arose from the ground to his right. Yet, as the captain turned to face it, it arose from behind, too. No sooner did he look there, then Nermesa heard it from another direction.

  It was everywhere. A sound like a parchment unfolding or leaves scraping against one another. The whispering continued unabated, never changing tone or intensity.

  Something stirred in the woods. Unwilling to wait for more of a threat, Nermesa charged at it, swinging the blade in two savage strokes.

  For his quick action, he was rewarded with several severed grass stalks.

  The same sound continued to come from everywhere and, worse, the Aquilonian again detected movement. A figure darted behind a tree, a figure far too short for a man. Not in the least, though, did Nermesa believe it to be a child.

  “Come and fight me, then!” he growled, threatening with the blade. “Quit skulking in the shadows!”

  And to his sudden horror, they did come.

  In the dimness of night, it was impossible to make them out clearly, but they were nothing human. At first, Nermesa simply believed he saw only bushes and grass shaking, as if some animal moved among them. Yet not only was he aware that these plants had not been there a moment before, but they themselves moved as if with intent.

  A glance over his shoulder verified that the view was the same no matter where he looked.

  The whispering finally grew stronger. With a sense of foreboding, the Black Dragon turned his gaze to his right and saw the fiendish shade atop a nearby ridge. The eye glittered evilly.

  Ra shana du karos, ashtur Charon . . . came the whisper. Zeta catar Charon . . .

  Nermesa tried to head toward the demon, only to have something seize his leg. He slashed down blindly at it and heard the cracking of branches, the ripping of leaves.

  From all over, the small
figures converged. In Nermesa’s mind, it was as if the woods themselves attacked him. He did not know whether what he saw was real or the product of some foul mesmerism, but his soldier’s instinct made him fight as if every grasping limb was as solid as a bandit’s blade.

  He chopped again and again, momentarily breaking their monstrous hold. They scampered about like devilish imps, ever seeking a blind spot or unwary moment.

  Although Nermesa desired to reach that which had summoned them, he was forced to run in the opposite direction. This also took him away from the caravan, but to stand his ground was to be overwhelmed. Leafy limbs wrapped over his mouth. Strong, vinelike ropes sought to tangle his feet. He chopped through shadowy form after shadowy form. All the while, the Aquilonian heard the whisper in his ears, the same dread voice urging on the horde.

  “Away from me, damn you!” Nermesa snapped, shoving off a sudden growth swarming over his breastplate. His sword hand became entangled despite his efforts, and he nearly lost the weapon again. Such a loss would be fatal, he knew, for nothing had an effect save the blade’s sharp edge.

  He hacked and slashed and cut at all within range, more than once slicing into a tree trunk by accident. The smith who had forged the sword at King Conan’s command had surely been exceptional for his trade, for despite all the mishaps, the weapon remained as sharp as the first day Nermesa had received it.

  But however excellent the sword was, it was only one weapon against an ever-growing torrent of greenery in the guise of men. They rose ahead of Nermesa, seeking to block his way. By sheer determination, the Black Dragon kept some path open, but often just barely.

  Ra shana du karos, ashtur Charon . . . zeta catar Charon . . . The words continued to mock Nermesa from both within and without his head. He chopped apart his inhuman adversaries without pause. Much to his distress, though, his arm began to grow heavy, his legs weary. Yet there was still no end in sight to the demon’s woodland horde.