The Eye of Charon

by Richard A. Knaak

  And then, when he thought it would never end . . . the trail finally flattened out. Minutes later, it gave way to a region sparsely covered with stunted, twisted trees and brown, low-lying grass. Even these seemed a miracle to Nermesa, but not nearly so much as the stream trickling between the rocks. From this he drank what he could, for he no longer had anything with which to carry more.

  Knowing that he could go little farther, Nermesa gathered what he could to start a fire. For shelter, the Aquilonian used a tall rock that blocked the wind. Food consisted of a spindly lizard he managed to catch and cook over the small flame.

  With the fire still going and a supply of dried branches and leaves for when it started to die out, Nermesa clutched himself tight and buried his head in his arms. He muttered a prayer to Mitra which, because of his exhaustion, faded half-done into sleep.

  WHAT EXACTLY IT was that woke him, at first the Aquilonian did not know. He only knew that whatever it was had been enough for him immediately to reach for his sword. Only when Nermesa saw that there was nothing in sight did he relax somewhat.

  Just at the point where he began to think that the noise had merely been something out of his dreams, he heard it again.

  Music?

  Rising, Nermesa tried to detect the direction of the melody. While he did not recognize it specifically, it sounded like something the knight had heard back in Aquilonia.

  Curious and certainly feeling as if he had nothing to lose, Nermesa followed the music as best as he could. More than once, he had to change his course, but the music gradually grew louder and more distinct. He was now certain that he had heard it back home and on more than one occasion.

  Then lights flickered up ahead. At least four campfires, perhaps more. Nermesa immediately ducked behind a rocky mound, then peeked over the top.

  A caravan . . . but not the same one that he had seen previously. This one was about as large as that which he had been assigned to protect and, judging by the men on the perimeter, as heavily armed. Still, although they were mostly silhouettes outlined by the fires that they passed, he believed the majority of the guards to be hired hands and mercenaries, not trained knights like himself.

  Of course, he thought ruefully, his training had not proven to be much help when trouble had started.

  Nermesa debated whether or not to walk into the camp or steer clear of it altogether. The decision was taken from him, though, by a sudden presence to his left.

  The man was a driver and had clearly walked out to deal with nature’s needs. Apparently half-asleep already, he almost had his pants down when he realized that Nermesa stood before him.

  The Aquilonian brought the tip of the sword to the man’s throat, and muttered, “Not a word unless I say so, and then it’d better be a whispered one, understood?”

  The driver nodded.

  “What caravan is that?”

  Swallowing, the man stammered, “ ’Tis one heading for the border of Ophir, to a trading market there! The caravan master is Mikonius Flavius!”

  Nermesa frowned at the sound of the name. “Aquilonian?”

  “Aye!” answered the driver with a nervous nod. “We all be Aquilonian and the caravan and all its goods belong to House Sibelio!”

  Bolontes’ son could scarcely believe his ears. “Baron Antonus Sibelio?”

  “N-none other!”

  It astounded Nermesa to run into yet another of Antonus’ caravans out here. Despite the many attacks by brigands, the baron obviously still conducted much business . . . as their meeting in Tebes had also shown. Nermesa had to admire the man’s determination, even if he was a trading rival of the knight’s own House.

  Lowering the sword, Nermesa ordered, “Lead me to your caravan master . . . if you please. I must have a word with him.”

  The driver eagerly agreed. Nermesa had no doubt that it had to do with the sword, but he did not care.

  As they approached, one of the sentries called out, “You back finally, Jubal? Make a new river out—halt! Who’s that with you?”

  “Be at ease,” the knight immediately responded. “I am Captain Nermesa Klandes of Tarantia, in service to his majesty, King Conan! I would speak with Master Flavius!”

  Two more guards joined the first. From what he could see of them, they were definitely mercenaries. The one who had called out eyed Nermesa with much distrust.

  “You? In service to King Conan? Aquilonia must’ve gone to ruins since we left, judging by you!”

  “I’ve been through much,” Nermesa said as explanation. “My interest is with your caravan master. Kindly lead me to him.”

  One of the others pointed a spear at the Black Dragon. “Maybe you should first kindly toss us that sword, eh? We promise to keep good care of it!”

  Nermesa was not about to surrender the only thing keeping him alive. He kept the blade pointed toward the ground but ready to use should the men attack. Jubal, who also saw a confrontation coming, quickly fled to the safety of the encampment.

  “If you’ll not lead me to Master Flavius,” continued Nermesa, “then send someone to bring him here. I will wait.”

  “Master Flavius will speak with you when you’re good and bound,” muttered the first guard. “Surrender your weapon, or we’ll take it from you!”

  Nermesa gritted his teeth in frustration. He had made two sensible suggestions, but all these men wanted was to fight him. Despite his travails, he readied himself for battle.

  The trio spread out. Two carried spears and wore sheaths for broadswords. The third, the one who had first spoken, carried a long, well-worn blade, and Nermesa suspected him to be the most skilled.

  But as Nermesa grimly prepared to defend himself, a short, beefy figure came rushing up from the center of the encampment.

  “What’s this? What’s this?” he piped up in a reedy voice. “Cease this now, cease this now!”

  “Stand back, Master Flavius,” suggested the first guard. “This here man’s a brigand . . .”

  “Tut, tut,” the caravan master waved off the fighter’s concern and strode out toward Nermesa. “The man who came running into camp said something about an officer serving King Conan! That would be you, I assume?”

  “I am Captain Nermesa Klandes of the Black Dragons—”

  At mention of the Black Dragons, two of the guards stiffened. Master Flavius, however, found another part of Nermesa’s introduction of more interest. “Klandes, you say? Klandes? Kin to Bolontes Klandes, are you?”

  “I’ve the honor of being his son.”

  The beefy man turned to the nearest of the fighters. “Run and get me a proper lamp! Hurry now, hurry now!”

  It said something of Master Flavius’ control that the guard immediately obeyed. In but a minute, the breastplated figure returned with a circular, brass oil lamp, which he handed to his superior.

  Stepping up to Nermesa, Mikonius Flavius held up the light near the knight’s countenance. At the same time, Nermesa beheld that of the caravan master. Mikonius Flavius was a round-faced, bald man roughly twice Nermesa’s age. He sported a tiny mustache and beard and peered at the newcomer with narrow brown orbs. Despite being on a long journey, Master Flavius wore stately robes of white and green better suited for an elegant evening’s entertainment in fair Tarantia than the mountainous wilds of Corinthia.

  “Bolontes . . . Bolontes . . .” the heavyset man finally nodded. “Ah, yes, ah, yes! I can see old Bolontes in your face quite well! Recall he had a son now! Nermesa was it?”

  “Yes.”

  The caravan master thrust out a meaty hand, which Nermesa belatedly took. “Dealt with your father in the past, I have! Know his face and manner quite well, I do! You definitely look to be his son, all right!” He shook the knight’s hand with surprising vigor, then, with the lamp, gestured to the guards. “Put those silly things away, I say! This man is a guest of mine and will be treated with respect! We may be out here in the middle of nowhere, but we’ll still act civilized, eh?”

  The fighters
did as he commanded, the lead one with the most reluctance.

  Utterly ignoring the sentries, Master Flavius took Nermesa by the arm. “Come, come, my young friend! Let’s get you into the camp! By Mitra! You look as if every Pict in the west had been after you! Well, we’ll find you some new clothes and get you food and drink while you regale us with your tale, hmm?”

  “Thank you,” Bolontes’ son returned with much relief. “Thank you very much.”

  “Tut, tut! The baron would have my head for treating a noble such as yourself with anything less than the full respect your station deserves, and I can do no less for the son of Bolontes, for whom I hold the highest regard . . . the highest.”

  “I assure you, Master Flavius—”

  “Mikonius, boy! Mikonius to you, Nermesa!”

  The man’s enthusiasm was contagious. Nermesa grinned.

  Several others from the caravan stood up in curiosity as the pair neared. Many were drivers, although there were guards, cooks, apprentices to the cooks, and a few wealthy passengers with their entourages. The latter group especially found Nermesa of interest. The wealthy latched on to merchant caravans for safety when traveling and the sight of a stranger often disturbed them more than the seasoned crew.

  The music had been coming from some of the drivers. One held a lyre, while another a flute.

  “Continue on, continue on!” commanded Mikonius, as if he did not have an armed stranger next to him.

  A scarred man with the look of a veteran driver approached the caravan master. Despite his harsh features, his eyes and expression simply held curiosity and concern. “What’s with this one, Mikonius?”

  “Nothing to fear, Romulo! Simply a friend of mine! Nermesa, may I present Romulo, my right hand! Romulo, this is Nermesa, son of Bolontes Klandes . . .”

  The driver’s eyes appraised Bolontes’ son, especially the grip he had on the sword. “Aye . . . Nermesa Klandes . . . the Hero of the Westermarck . . .”

  Mikonius’ fat lips pursed as he looked at the knight as if for the first time. “Of course, of course! How could I forget? The Westermarck! You’re a hero!”

  “I survived,” returned Nermesa, not at all pleased to be recalled so. “Others didn’t.” Briefly, the faces of his servant and friend, Quentus, General Boronius—the Boar—and even his cousin Caltero flashed through his thoughts, bringing with them renewed pain.

  Romulo looked sympathetic, but Master Flavius completely missed the shift in Nermesa’s expression. He slapped the younger Aquilonian on the back. “A hero in our midst! Hah! Come, my lord Nermesa! I would introduce you to my other guests!”

  Ignoring the fact that he had yet to clothe or feed the “hero.” Mikonius dragged Nermesa toward the nobles. He went around from one party to the next, showing off the ragged-looking captain as if the latter were a prize bull. Fortunately, most of the nobles nodded politely and even sympathetically. A few of the younger women, especially the twin, flaxen-haired daughters of one Baron Torino, eyed Nermesa with more than a little interest—to which he was careful to act oblivious.

  Some of the sons and young male servants stared in open awe, they at that age when the exploits of knights and soldiers consumed their every waking moment. One boy noticed the gems on Nermesa’s sword and within moments the tale of how the knight had been given the weapon by King Conan spread among the nobles . . . with most of the details utterly wrong. Nermesa, though, knew better than to try to correct the story, for he had failed in previous attempts many times before.

  It was Romulo who finally saved him, the senior driver coming up behind Mikonius, and whispering in his ear, “Master Flavius, I believe your hero is about to fall over from hunger and exhaustion.”

  To his credit, the caravan master quickly made his apologies to the gathered nobles and escorted Nermesa back to his own wagon. Romulo assisted in getting Nermesa a tunic and pants, along with some boots, the driver locating the proper sizes from his belongings and contributions from others. The boots, in fact, came from one of the noble families and was a mark of how much Nermesa’s reputation had spread throughout Tarantia and the surrounding regions.

  As soon as Nermesa was dressed, Mikonius had his own cook bring the young Klandes food from his personal stock. Nermesa found the manner in which the stout man ran his caravan far different from that of Darius. Yet the Baron Sibelio clearly trusted Mikonius if the size of the caravan was any indication.

  In fact, for all his bluster, Mikonius appeared well liked and respected by those who served under him. Romulo, clearly a competent man in his own right, obviously worked hand in hand with his superior without any resentment.

  Someday, like it or not, Nermesa, too, would have to deal with the hiring of such men. He would also probably have to leave the Black Dragons, although it was not entirely unheard of for those in his position both to command their Houses and serve their liege.

  Nermesa frowned, hoping that such a decision would be long in the future. His father was fit, and the son desired nothing more than to do his duty for king and realm. Mastery of one of the eldest, wealthiest Houses in Aquilonia could wait.

  Master Flavius politely waited until Nermesa was done eating before plying him with questions concerning his reasons for being so far from home. The knight answered them as best he could, leaving out whatever he believed too sensitive to reveal.

  “Astounding tale, astounding tale,” gasped the marveling Mikonius, when Nermesa was through. “Heard something was being planned with one of the other caravan masters . . . didn’t you, Romulo?”

  The chief driver, who apparently always ate with his superior, grunted. “Aye. Figures they’d choose old Darius’. The man was a soldier for ten years before the good baron took him on. Darius is a crafty one.”

  “But so, evidently, are these awful brigands,” concluded Mikonius. “You’re correct in your assumption, Nermesa! I doubt that they think you live!”

  This had continued to be a point of frustration with Bolontes’ son throughout his travails. Yet, it was not himself that he was most concerned about. “I don’t even know if the others survived . . .”

  “It’d take a pack of demons to do old Darius in,” replied Romulo with a snigger.

  “And you said that there were several other Black Dragons with the guards,” the caravan master added. He patted Nermesa on the shoulder. “I suspect that we’ll find out that they fought off the villains, fought them off, and made it to Nemedia.”

  Nermesa looked at both men. “I wish there was some way to find out . . . and to let those in Tarantia know I still live, too!”

  “Aah, but there is, there is! The baron keeps a number of birds at our location at the Ophirian border! We always send one off when we reach our destination so that he can know as soon as possible! Also receive messages from him wherever he might be!”

  Romulo perked up. “Mikonius, can’t we use the two we’re bringing with us to Ophir?”

  “I would like to, yes,” murmured the caravan master, tapping his fingers together in thought. “But I’ve a duty to the baron, and you know his orders are strict. These birds are to replace the one we send and the one sent by the care-taker two months ago.”

  “But surely—”

  Mikonius shook his head. “I am adamant in this, Romulo.” He gave Nermesa an apologetic look. “I have sworn faithfully to serve the baron in all ways. You understand that, I trust?”

  Nermesa knew that he had to understand, whether he wanted to or not. “How far are we from your destination? I fear I no longer know exactly where I am.”

  “Four days only, if Romulo here can be trusted to keep the pace strong . . . and he can.”

  Four days. Nermesa considered his options. It was possible that he might convince Master Flavius to loan him a horse. Nermesa could leave in the morning in the hopes of reaching Tarantia on his own. Of course, with his record so far, that appeared unlikely. If he did not run afoul of more Corinthians, there was the danger of bandits—not to mention the insidiou
s Set-Anubis, apparently.

  “How long before your caravan returns to Tarantia?” he asked Mikonius.

  “Two months at least. We have much business to do, much business. However, you need not wait that long. The caravan run by my good friend Polythemus should be just arriving on its way up from Koth. He and I were to meet while his band refitted for the rest of the journey home.”

  “A caravan from Koth?” Even with the terrible threat of the brigands, it seemed that Antonus had managed to keep his business flourishing. Nermesa gave thanks to Mitra for the baron’s resolve; it would enable the Black Dragon not only to get some message home, but perhaps himself as well.

  Of course, once there, Nermesa would have to face General Pallantides and the king with his failure.

  “Will that do, then?” his host asked hopefully. When Nermesa nodded, Mikonius fairly beamed with delight. “Splendid, splendid! Now, we must speak of your accommodations! You will take my own wagon—”

  Here, the weary knight drew the line. “Thank you, but I prefer a bedroll by the fire.”

  “For the son of Bolontes? I should say not—”

  “Master Flavius, I am an officer in the service of King Conan. If my mission has failed, I am still beholden to protecting his subjects as if they were him. I failed to aid Darius’ caravan, but I willingly add my arm to those men protecting yours.”

  Romulo chuckled. “Don’t think that you’re going to argue him out of this, Mikonius!”

  The caravan master looked pained but finally agreed. “I shall at least provide you with one of my own blankets. If you must sleep on the ground, then you will still sleep in comfort!”

  He clapped his hands and a young, female servant rushed out of the dark to see what he needed. As she scampered off to find the blanket, Mikonius rose.

  “Romulo, I leave him in your capable hands, then, eh? My lord Nermesa—pardon—Captain Nermesa—we shall make everything right for you the moment we reach Karphur, our destination.”