The Eye of Charon

by Richard A. Knaak

  Much to his further frustration, the path also began winding southwest . . . away from home. He knew that it would eventually return to Aquilonia, but this meant a longer, more wearying trek. Yet, there was nothing Nermesa could do but follow it; the mountains offered no other trustworthy way.

  At what was perhaps the flattest, least oppressive part of the trek, he paused to sleep. In the mountains it would not do to ride while either man or beast was overly weary. A single mistake could prove a very final one.

  The next day began ominously overcast, with strong winds and long rumbles of thunder. The only good thing that Nermesa could find about the situation was that the path had just begun to wind back north again. He hoped that he would be out of the worst of the mountains before the weather turned wicked.

  Some distance ahead of him, small rocks clattered onto the path. Nermesa had long grown used to being pelted by such as them, the mountains seeming constantly to shed bits of their bulk. Fortunately, only once had anything possibly deadly fallen anywhere near him.

  As the wind picked up, more clatter arose from both in front of and behind him. Nermesa tugged on the reins, slowing the horse.

  Up farther ahead, where he could not see, there came a particularly loud clatter. Nermesa frowned, wondering if the path was breaking apart.

  Then, the head of another horse came into view.

  Swearing, the Aquilonian reined his mount to an abrupt halt. He was still in lands claimed by the Corinthian city-states, especially Sarta.

  Around the bend came a dour-looking rider—a soldier in Sartan gear.

  He caught sight of Nermesa and his expression twisted into surprise. As the Aquilonian sought to turn his horse about, the soldier drew his weapon and urged his own mount forward as fast as it dared go.

  Nermesa got his own blade out just as the man neared. As their weapons came together, Bolontes’ son saw another Sartan coming up behind the first.

  Despite being at an awkward angle, Nermesa proved the better swordsman. He parried two more strikes by the soldier, then cut the man on the right arm. As the soldier pulled back the wounded hand, Nermesa’s blade drew a deep slash across his throat.

  Not waiting for his opponent to fall, the Aquilonian urged his horse back down the path. There had been one or two possible side trails—where they came out, he could not even hazard a guess—and it was Nermesa’s hope that he could lose the Sartans there.

  He dared peer back long enough to see the second soldier now followed by a third and fourth. A patrol. The Sartans clearly sought to increase their hold on all commercial passage through the mountains. Phillipian had been wrong to think that they would find such a route unimportant, and now Nermesa paid the price for that false assumption.

  More familiar with a path he had just taken, Nermesa made far better time than on his way the other direction. Unfortunately, another quick look over his shoulder indicated that his pursuers, too, knew the way, certainly well enough to keep up. There were at least four behind him now, and Nermesa suspected more followed.

  The hooves of his horse constantly kicked up loose rock. More than once, the animal skidded several feet. However, the Aquilonian dared not let up. The soldiers drew nearer and nearer, one of them now almost close enough to take a swing with his weapon.

  A gap opened up on his right. Not certain whether it was actually one of the paths for which he had been searching, Nermesa nonetheless veered his steed toward it.

  The Sartans followed right behind, the lead rider narrowing the gap more. He finally took a swing at Nermesa, only to come up short. Still, it would not take much more for the next swing to make contact.

  The left edge of the trail abruptly gave way to a chasm several hundred feet deep. Nermesa kept his mount near the right, even though that meant almost constantly scraping his unprotected shoulder against the jagged side of the mountain.

  The first Sartan came up on his left, by his expert handling of his horse on the narrow path clearly a man who had ridden this way before. He thrust—not at Nermesa, but rather the Aquilonian’s steed. The animal let out a cry as the blade drew a shallow gash on the flank.

  Nermesa swung back at the man, only to have his attack parried. The soldier thrust, but came up short. Twice more, they traded vicious strikes. The Sartan grinned as he took the upper hand—

  Pulling his left foot free of the stirrups, Nermesa shoved with all his might at the other fighter’s mount. The beast was powerful, and so his effort was only measured in inches.

  But inches was all Nermesa had needed. The Sartan horse stumbled, lost its footing—and slipped off the path.

  Both it and its rider screamed as they plummeted to their doom.

  Regretting his tactics but aware that they were necessary, the knight struggled to maintain control of his own horse. The effort forced him to slow. Two more of the soldiers drew near, but they did not advance enough to take him on. That they were at the moment content to follow meant that they knew of a better point ahead at which to attack.

  Nermesa urged the horse on, daring the narrow ridge more than he knew that he should have. There were still at least four men nipping at his heels and likely others out of sight.

  The wind howled, and small droplets of water assailed the Aquilonian, but he did not let up. Several times, the hooves of his steed came perilously close to the edge. Once, Nermesa thought that he heard a scream behind him, but with the wind and thunder, it was impossible to verify.

  At last, the trail veered off into a ravine. Nermesa had no choice but to follow it down. The ravine opened wider, finally allowing for two or more men on horseback to ride abreast . . . which was exactly what Nermesa had been hoping to avoid.

  A quick glance back verified his fear. The Sartans rode with renewed energy, whipping their mounts into a frenzy as they sought to come up at him from both sides. There were seven that the Black Dragon could count, likely the full contingent at this point. He doubted that if he surrendered and tried to explain his presence, they would give him the chance even to open his mouth. All appeared to be veteran fighters, and each looked eager to take his head.

  Three outpaced the rest. One in particular looked to be a serious threat. He was the oldest, leanest of the pack, and from his crested helm Nermesa suspected him to be the officer in charge. The Sartan shouted something at the man nearest him, and that soldier unexpectedly sheathed his sword.

  Nermesa did not have to wonder long what the hunters planned, for the second soldier then reached back and removed a bow from behind him. With expert skill, he seized an arrow from a quiver on the other side and readied the weapon for firing.

  The Aquilonian twisted in the saddle just as the archer shot. Despite the tumultuous elements, Nermesa did not fail to hear the deadly hiss as the bolt soared just above his head. Had he been sitting as he had a second before, the shaft would have buried itself between his shoulder blades.

  There was nothing Nermesa could do but pray that he could present too difficult a target. He had no armor anymore, and his sword was scant protection against an arrow.

  Then, up ahead he saw that the ravine narrowed again. It also rose up and split into two directions. Planting himself tight against the horse’s mane, Nermesa prayed to Mitra that he would reach the narrower passage before another shot could be fired. If so, the archer would either have to risk slowing everyone down or pull back to let the others by.

  Suddenly, his horse shrieked and stumbled. The animal continued on, but at a faltering pace. Nermesa could sense the loss of speed and knew that the Sartans had to be fast gaining on him.

  He discovered the cause quickly. A second shaft stuck out of the horse’s right flank. It had gone deep enough to draw blood and pain the beast. By the continued bleeding from the wound, the horse would only slow more, too.

  Despite the arrow, Nermesa still managed to reach the narrow passage, but now the hope of gaining ground on his pursuers was gone. As the fork came up, he chose at random the one on the left. Behind h
im, Nermesa could hear shouts. The Sartans clearly believed that they had their prey, and he could not argue with their sentiments.

  Up into the left branch Nermesa rode. His horse’s breathing grew labored as the arrow wound took its toll. Behind him, the archer had given way to the patrol leader.

  The path went up and around to the right, then, without warning, turned completely south. Worse yet, again the area to his left became a treacherous chasm. Nermesa could not waste any time lamenting his terrible choice, for he could already hear the hoofbeats of the foremost Sartan right behind him.

  The uncertain terrain at the next curve forced him to slow. Out of the corner of his eye, the knight caught the officer’s approach. The Sartan had his sword raised high, likely with the intention of trying for Nermesa’s neck.

  As the enemy soldier neared, the Aquilonian’s horse stumbled. It crashed into the mountainside, then nearly ran off the edge. Nermesa quickly thrust his blade into its sheath and fought to keep the panicked and wounded animal from sending them both to their deaths . . .

  The Sartan chose that moment for his attack. He pressed his mount against Nermesa’s—indirectly assisting the knight in keeping his own steed under control—then slashed.

  Nermesa bit his lip as the tip of the blade cut into his shoulder. He gave thanks to Mitra that it had not been worse. The jostling by the horses had worked to the Aquilonian’s benefit.

  Nermesa attempted to draw his blade again, but the Sartan pressed him too much. The Black Dragon was constantly forced to twist out of the officer’s reach, something that he knew he could not successfully continue for very long.

  His horse gave a mournful cry and crashed against the mountainside again, briefly pinning the Aquilonian’s leg between its torso and the unforgiving rock. Nermesa grunted in pain and, in his distraction, nearly lost his head to the patrol leader.

  It was clear that the horse was near collapse. The wound had been worse than Nermesa had thought. If he remained on the animal, it would either end up trapping him again between it and the mountain or crush him in its fall.

  He had only one mad hope. Tensing, Nermesa tugged on the reins, allowing the Sartan to draw up beside him. The officer grinned, and Nermesa knew that he expected the fleeing Aquilonian to try to kick at the other horse as he had earlier.

  Instead, Nermesa leapt at the Sartan.

  His action caught the soldier completely by surprise. The knight used his weight to shove his adversary off the opposing side of the saddle. The Sartan’s arms flailed, and his sword flew from his grip.

  Clutching to the side of the saddle, Nermesa used his own failing steed as an added brace as he sought control of the other animal. The Sartan had all but fallen from the saddle. In desperation, he seized Nermesa’s leg and with his other hand grabbed at the Black Dragon’s collar.

  His armored weight proved much more than Nermesa could bear in his own awkward position. Instead of gaining the saddle, the Aquilonian slid over it.

  Both men fell from the horse. Unable to stop their momentum, they tumbled over the edge and into the chasm.

  The slope here was not so abrupt as where Nermesa had sent the first Sartan and his horse to their deaths, but to fall from its height still promised certain doom. Nermesa tried to untangle himself from his foe, but for whatever reason, the officer clung tight. The two of them bounced painfully down the mountainside.

  Then, at last, the Aquilonian was able to push free. He heard a desperate curse from the other fighter, then the Sartan vanished from his constantly shifting view.

  Nermesa grabbed for any surface that would slow his descent, but his initial attempts only earned him fingers scraped raw and bloody. As he rolled over again, he saw that, farther down, the slope changed to a more dramatic one. If Nermesa did not stop himself soon, he would go flying off over the chasm.

  His leg struck a hard outcropping with such force that he screamed. Yet, that same outcropping proved to be the hold that Nermesa had so long sought. Somehow, he managed to wrap first one arm, then the other, about it. For several seconds, Nermesa swung wildly about, then he finally stopped.

  Of the Sartan, there was no sign, and Nermesa had to assume that the man had kept falling. The Aquilonian focused on his own troubles; not only did he have to worry about slipping free, but the other soldiers surely still had to be up on the trail. They would at least try to see if their commander lived.

  And if they spotted Nermesa, a well-aimed shot from the archer would put an end to their quarry.

  Urged on by this dire knowledge, Bolontes’ son pulled himself up atop the outcropping and peered around. Some yards ahead, an overhang with a shallow depression beneath it offered some protection . . . if he could get to it and quickly.

  Small rocks suddenly pelted him. Nermesa looked up, but did not see the other soldiers. Aware that he could not waste time, the Black Dragon sought some footing. When he found that, he reached with one hand to a jutting rock. Testing it and finding it holding, Nermesa shifted over.

  More rocks struck him. Nermesa heard a voice. He flattened himself against the mountain, hoping that his grip and footing would remain.

  When no bolt flew down at him, the Aquilonian moved on. Twice he had to adjust his feet when what seemed secure positions crumbled unexpectedly. At the end, Nermesa had to make a daring leap the final yard, and it was more by luck than skill that he kept himself from falling backward into the chasm.

  Secreted in the depression, Nermesa waited. The wind battled to shove him from his hiding place, but he kept both hands tight on the mountainside.

  Voices reached him. Something that sounded like an argument briefly rose above the howl of the wind and the rumble of thunder.

  More rocks—a small avalanche, in fact—suddenly poured over Nermesa’s location. He positioned himself as best he could beneath the overhang, hoping that the surviving soldiers had not seen him.

  The rockslide grew in intensity. Another voice shouted—this time much closer.

  There was a huge clatter of stone and a scream. As Nermesa gaped, a Sartan slid helplessly past him. Eyes wide with horror, the soldier grasped madly at the rock face.

  His eyes momentarily fixed on Nermesa . . . and then the man tumbled into the chasm, still screaming.

  Other voices above chattered angrily, excitedly. Nermesa slid one hand near his sword, although how he could use it in such a precarious position was a fair question.

  Minutes slowly passed, and still no other soldier came into sight. When at last he could stand it no more, Nermesa cautiously adjusted his position and peered up around the edge of the overhang.

  There were no soldiers in sight on the rock face, but his angle precluded any good view of the trail itself. Risking getting shot by an arrow, Nermesa crawled up to the top of the overhang, using it now for his footing.

  When he was still not attacked, the Aquilonian decided he had to take a risk. Reaching up, he located a handhold . . .

  The ascent was even more unsettling than his near fall, for the fear-stricken face of the one Sartan was burned into his memory. One slip, and he would join both him and the officer in oblivion.

  Inch by inch, eternity by eternity, the knight edged up. A few loose pebbles showered him, but, fortunately, nothing larger. His fingers were raw and bled again. His path up was marked by red stains . . .

  And when he planted one hand on the trail, Nermesa fully expected to be grabbed or even kicked off by the Sartans. Yet, as the bedraggled fighter pulled himself up, it was to see that the trail was empty.

  The Sartans had abandoned the hunt, deciding that it had already cost them more than they were willing to accept. There was no hint as to which direction they had gone, but Nermesa suspected that they had turned back to report their losses. As for their quarry, he very much believed that they would report Nermesa also dead or else some other officer would have their heads for retreating from their duty.

  He surveyed every direction. The last might not be far from the trut
h. Here he was, in the middle of the mountains without a horse, food, or shelter. He had no idea where he was or where he had to go. Nermesa no longer even had any idea which direction Aquilonia lay. All he saw around him were mountains and more mountains.

  The wind renewed its assault of the Aquilonian with utter vigor. Nermesa felt a chill run through him. When he had been clad in armor, he had at least had the padding underneath to act as some sort of buffer against the elements. Now Nermesa only had the thin garments—now much torn—that Phillipian had given him to replace his own. Hardly enough to keep him warm.

  But they will have to do, he told himself. And it is said that, in his youth, King Conan crossed worse without even a shirt on his back!

  Whether that story was true or not meant nothing now, though. Nermesa had no choice but to move on. He dared not walk back the way he had come, for there was still the possibility that the Sartans had left one or two men behind to guard the area. Besides, the path ahead looked as if it descended into a more hospitable region, perhaps one where he could find shelter.

  Perhaps . . . but it might also lead to a dead end.

  Bracing himself and summoning visions of his loved ones and the king to encourage his efforts, Nermesa glanced one last time in the direction from which he had come, then started down the other way.

  12

  IT WAS LONG past the point where he should have slumped down and simply fallen asleep—and maybe never wake—but Nermesa would not permit himself to quit. Each curve ahead he told himself was the one that would finally open up into a more pastoral setting . . . or at least something less harsh.

  But they did not. The staggering Aquilonian went from one winding part of the trail to another and each seemed a copy of the previous. Meanwhile, the wind did not let up, and more than once it had briefly rained. The only thing for which Nermesa could give thanks was that he had run into no more pursuit.