“One, perhaps,” Nermesa finally replied. “I don’t want to run afoul of Master Polythemus’ rules come the morning.”
“Mitra forbid you should do that! Ha!”
Romulo had some tasks with which to deal, so Nermesa located a secluded area behind the Sibelio holdings and practiced with his sword. It had been the first time in many days that he had been able to do so. His muscles complained at first, then eased up. Nermesa dueled with invisible foes, going through most of the moves he had learned not only from his family instructors but from the trainers serving under General Pallantides.
He suddenly realized that he was being watched. Antimedes stood by a doorway, the driver’s arms folded and his eyes taking the measure of the man before him.
“Good,” he grunted. He tapped his own sheathed sword. “Want some live practice?”
Nermesa signaled his readiness with a sweep of his blade. Antimedes, clad in the plain, brown tunic of Polythemus’ men, drew his weapon as he approached. From his actions, Nermesa guessed the wider man was good with the sword.
“I hear you’re of the Black Dragons. That so?”
“Yes.”
“I almost was.” And with that, Antimedes lunged.
Nermesa barely checked the attack. He immediately discovered that he had underestimated the driver’s skill. Antimedes was not just good; he was excellent. At first, it was all the knight could do to keep Antimedes from getting through his guard.
But as he became familiar with the other’s moves, Nermesa not only countered better, but he began to attack. Antimedes grunted in respect as Nermesa pressed him. Their swords clanged again and again as they paced back and forth. The driver’s face grew red from effort, but his eyes gleamed with pleasure. Nermesa, too, enjoyed the effort, for a skilled opponent helped hone his own abilities.
At last, Antimedes leapt back. He dropped his sword to the ground. Panting, the grinning driver said, “I yield! By Mitra, I yield!”
It took Nermesa a moment to catch enough of his breath to answer, “A good thing! I might’ve had to do the same myself in another minute!”
“Would that I’d known that, my lord! Would that I’d known that!” Antimedes picked up his weapon. “I’d do this again on the journey if you’ve an interest in it . . .”
“I’m agreeable.” It would help ease some of Nermesa’s impatience.
“Look forward to it, then.” The driver saluted him with his sword, then sheathed it. “Just make sure you’re ready. Master Polythemus don’t like anyone late. You’d best retire shortly after dark, just to be safe.”
“I intend that.”
With another nod, Antimedes left him. Nermesa sought out a water barrel and not only drank his fill but poured some over his face. With such skill, Polythemus’ second was wasted as a driver. He wondered why Antimedes had not become one of the Black Dragons. Certainly his abilities were worthy of the elite unit. Nermesa decided to ask the driver when next they had a moment.
Romulo met him as he entered. “There you are.” remarked Mikonius’ man. “Come! That ale’s been calling to us for hours!”
He led Nermesa to a favored tavern of his, one where the women proved almost as heady as the strong drink. Scantily clad dancers leapt atop tables and swung their gauzy skirts around with wanton abandon. However, Nermesa noticed that they were also nimble enough to evade the occasional eager grab by one customer or another. The women, he soon discovered, chose the men, not the other way around.
Romulo was popular with them and had clearly been here several times before, judging by how more than one woman called him by name. They also seemed to take a liking to Nermesa. He accepted the company of one, buying her a drink as was expected here. Naturally, though, she left most of it untouched, her purpose not only to make the customer happy but willing to spend more than he intended. However, she also had to make certain that she kept her wits.
The one ale became two at Romulo’s insistence, but when he tried to insist on a third, Bolontes’ son finally had to make his excuses.
“I don’t want to anger Master Polythemus,” he reminded his friend. “I need to reach Tarantia.”
“I suppose that’s necessary.” Slipping free of the woman on his lap, the driver clasped Nermesa’s hand. “If our paths do not cross before the caravan leaves, I want to wish you the best, Captain Nermesa. When next I meet my brother, I’ll tell him of our encounter.”
Turning his own companion over to Romulo, Nermesa bid him farewell. Wending his way through the crowd, he stepped out into the relatively fresh air. The tavern was some distance from the Sibelio holdings, but even at night the towers that Romulo had pointed out could be seen, for now they were lit up.
With them as his guide, the knight started back. It was later than he had planned; at least two hours later. Nermesa prayed that nothing would go wrong and that he would indeed be prepared precisely when the imperious Polythemus insisted.
Although the market was ever active, Nermesa’s route from the tavern demanded that he skirt it. Instead, he had to take side streets and even the occasional alley. The path was the one that Romulo had chosen on their way out. There were times when Nermesa thought that he should have taken a different, more straightforward direction back, but better the path he knew than trying out another in the middle of the night that might, no matter how good it seemed, lead him astray. Nermesa could ill afford to become lost in Karphur.
But lost he almost was. Nermesa hesitated at one alley-way, trying to recall which direction Romulo had earlier led him. After a moment, he turned right—
“Not that way . . .” whispered a voice in his ear. At the same time, a hand caught his shoulder.
“Romulo?” blurted Nermesa.
“Quiet!” Despite the shadows, the knight could see that his friend’s face was filled with concern. “Quickly! Come this way, Nermesa!”
He all but dragged the other man in the opposite direction. When Nermesa tried to protest, Romulo immediately silenced him with a curt cut of his hand.
The knight peered over his shoulder at the alley he had chosen, but saw nothing. Nermesa could have sworn that it was the right path back.
Romulo led him around a corner, then through another alley. They made two more turns before Nermesa finally decided that he had had enough. Breaking free of his companion, he demanded, “What’s going on, Romulo? Why lead me into this dark place?” The knight looked around. He now had no idea where to go, for the black buildings surrounding them hid from his view the one landmark that he knew. “What are you up to?”
In answer, the driver drew his sword. “I’m sorry to have done this, Nermesa.”
Throwing himself farther back, Nermesa reached for his own weapon. But as he drew it, he heard from more than one direction soft footfalls.
Shadowed forms closed in on both sides, their faces obscured by hoods. All wielded swords.
Romulo had betrayed him.
14
NERMESA TURNED ON the treacherous driver. “If I’m to die, I’ll take you with me!”
He leapt at Romulo who, instead of meeting his attack, left himself wide open. “Stop, Nermesa! I’m not your enemy! I admit to being part of it, keeping you out and trying to make you drink enough to unsteady your hand, but when it came time for the evil deed, I couldn’t! I tried to lead you away from them, but they’ve followed!”
The other men were fast approaching. Nermesa counted three apiece for six. “And why should I believe that?”
“For the sake of my brother, whose life you saved!” Romulo then did the only thing that could have utterly convinced the Black Dragon of his true intentions . . . he turned away from the knight, facing three of the hooded villains. His back he left completely open to Nermesa. “For my brother, who should’ve been enough of a reason to refuse to be part of this treachery in the first place!”
The six were almost upon them. One on Romulo’s side signaled a halt and, in a muffled voice, demanded, “What do you think you’re doing
, you fool?”
“I do what I must. I care not if it means I lose all.”
The leader of the assassins grunted. “So be it. Then you die with him.”
He lunged at Romulo. His attack was the sign for which the other assassins waited. They moved in on the duo en masse, almost forcing Nermesa and Romulo into one another.
The driver met the leader’s blade, cutting and slashing with abandon. Nermesa had no time to judge his companion’s skill, for his own trio of opponents struck simultaneously, leaving even the well-trained knight desperately on the defensive. He managed to parry two of the swords, but the third one slipped through, the tip licking his right arm.
Ignoring the sting, Nermesa counterattacked. His audacity startled the assassins. One momentarily backed away, giving the Aquilonian an opening against the second. He thrust, catching the villain under the arm.
Undeterred by a breastplate, the blade sank in deep. Nermesa’s target let out a gasp and twisted away. As the first man returned, the wounded figure fell to the ground.
As Nermesa shifted position, he saw that Romulo, too, still held his ground. The leader had pulled back, letting his two comrades work on the driver from opposing sides. However, he had not retreated out of any fear. His stance indicated that he studied Romulo’s every move, seeking weaknesses and openings.
Nermesa wanted to warn the driver of this, but his own adversaries pushed their attack again. Alternating thrusts, they nearly pinned the knight to the wall of the nearest building. Only his own superior training kept Nermesa from being skewered more than once.
“Ha!” came Romulo’s triumphant cry. There was a clatter, followed by a dull thud.
But that call was followed by the muffled voice of the assassin leader growling, “Aside! I’ll take him!”
“Romulo—!” Nermesa’s warning got no farther, for one of the villains he fought suddenly jumped him. The knight kicked out, catching his adversary on the shin just as the man reached him. The hooded figure stumbled forward and Nermesa rewarded him with a fist to the jaw.
As the stunned assassin fell back, his comrade sought to use the struggle to his own advantage. However, Nermesa saw him out of the corner of his eye and brought up his blade.
In his haste, the last of the trio left himself open. Bolontes’ son caught him across the midsection. The wound was not fatal, but surely painful. His foe retreated, one hand clutching the bleeding area.
Aware of the imminent danger to Romulo, Nermesa turned to aid the driver—
And watched in horror as the leader of the assassins plunged his blade through Romulo’s throat.
Mikonius’ man let out a horrific gurgle. As the hooded figure pulled free his dripping blade, Romulo, dropping his own sword, grabbed at the gaping hole with his fingers. He staggered against the wall, then into Nermesa’s free arm.
“My bro—” was all the knight’s companion could manage. Romulo’s gaze turned skyward . . . then he slipped out of Nermesa’s grip and onto the ground.
“Fool!” Romulo’s murderer spat.
A fury overwhelmed Nermesa. He flung himself at the assassin. The man next to his target sought to take him instead and for his effort was rewarded with a swift thrust through the ribs and the heart.
The quick, efficient death did no more to shake the leader than Nermesa’s earlier efforts against the other three assassins had. With a nod and a grunt, he met the Aquilonian’s angry assault.
Nermesa had expected the villain to be good, but he was far better. Worse, he seemed to anticipate many of the knight’s moves, almost getting under Nermesa’s guard twice in the first few moments.
Needing to focus, Nermesa tried to back up, only to find the wall right behind him. His opponent chuckled and closed the gap immediately.
But as the furious assault renewed, Nermesa noticed some familiarities in the man’s actions. Distinct moves that he had only recently come across . . .
Antimedes.
Only then did he realize that he had earlier been played for a fool. When the other driver had come across Nermesa practicing, he had used it to test out the latter’s skills . . . and weaknesses. All that so that he could be better prepared when it came time for the foul deed.
But why did he want to kill Nermesa in the first place?
Unaware that his identity was known, Antimedes attacked with relish, clearly anticipating his victory over the Black Dragon. He had claimed that he, too, had nearly been one of that august group. How true that might be was a question Nermesa would likely never know, but it also revealed some of the betrayer’s shortcomings. When they had fought, Nermesa had utilized most of the tricks taught him by his instructors . . . but not all of them.
Antimedes suddenly grunted as he found Nermesa’s weapon maneuvering in a manner unaccustomed to him. His own effort to recover momentarily evened the struggle, but then the knight countered in yet another manner.
“Mitra!” snapped the betrayer. “What did you—?”
Before he could finish, Nermesa lunged. His sword pierced Antimedes through the lung. The larger man grunted, and his sword hand twitched. He lost his weapon and staggered back.
“For Romulo . . .” snarled Nermesa.
He swiftly grabbed the falling man by his tunic and swung him into the nearest of the other assassins. Already startled by the sudden change in fortunes, the surviving attackers stood motionless. Antimedes’ flailing body collided with Nermesa’s target, sending both crashing to the ground.
Bolontes’ son slashed at one of those he had earlier wounded, then shoved his way past. He had been fortunate to face down the group with Romulo’s help, but he suspected that his troubles were not over. This trap concerned more than Antimedes; Nermesa believed Polythemus involved at the very least.
But why? And why had the caravan master simply not waited until they were out of Karphur? There were many places along the journey to Tarantia where he could have easily had the knight slain.
Confused, Nermesa ran toward the Sibelio facilities. Perhaps Mikonius could shed some light on the matter. At least he could trust him.
As he neared, Nermesa slowed. He carefully peered around the corner before advancing on the main building itself. There were House guards nearby—as was common for such places—but they proved easy to slip past. Until he spoke with Mikonius, Nermesa could not be certain that some of the men he confronted might not also be in the pay of Antimedes and his superior.
It still baffled him that Polythemus had chosen this sort of attack. Could the caravan master not trust his own crew on the journey?
A door creaked open. A figure carrying a lantern in one hand stepped out. Nermesa flattened against the nearest wall, then breathed a sigh of relief when he saw who it was . . . Mikonius Flavius.
The rotund caravan master was alone. He hummed to himself as he strode from the building, clearly in a good mood.
Nermesa stepped out of the shadows. “Master Flavius—”
Mikonius took one look at the knight, then at the sword. In the light of the lantern, the blood gleamed ominously.
With an oath, the caravan master threw the lamp at him.
Nermesa barely deflected the object in time. It crashed on the ground, shattering and spreading burning oil everywhere.
“Timonius! Garet! Quickly!”
Only then did Nermesa realize that Mikonius had been involved in the attempted murder. The knight froze for a moment, stunned by this revelation.
“But why?” he blurted to the other.
Two large men wielding long swords burst through the door. The caravan master’s chief bodyguards. At the same time, Nermesa heard other shouts from within.
He could not face them all. Thinking quickly, Nermesa made a feint toward Mikonius. The heavy figure reacted as he expected, stumbling back and colliding with his own men. The collision bought Nermesa the moment that he desired. He spun about and ran toward where the horses were kept.
From behind him came angry voices. Picking up his pac
e, Nermesa turned toward the building in question.
Two guards stood poised near the entrance, their stances making it clear that they had heard the shouts. As Nermesa neared, he gestured behind him and shouted, “Hurry! Master Flavius is being attacked!”
He stood there as if ready to run back with them, but as the pair rushed by, Nermesa hesitated. The moment that he saw that the guards continued on, he turned back to the stables.
Swinging open the doors, the knight quickly looked around. As he had hoped, there were a few animals already saddled. Many merchants kept a handful so prepared for possible need in emergencies. His own father did the same.
Mounting up, he started out of the stables. Just beyond the doors, he nearly ran over a gaunt figure. As the knight instinctively veered his horse around the man, he saw that it none other than Polythemus.
Like Mikonius, Polythemus carried an oil lamp so that he could see where he was going. Unlike the treacherous caravan master, though, the figure before Nermesa wore an expression of utter puzzlement at sight of the rider.
“Nermesa Klandes? Why are you about at such an hour?” He did not reach for the sword at his side; nor did he call out for help. He simply stood there in confusion.
Only then did Nermesa realize that Polythemus was the innocent one. He had known nothing of the murder plot. Only his man Antimedes appeared to be involved, and that with Mikonius.
Nermesa thought to explain, but then decided that to do so was to risk the man’s life. Better that Polythemus remain ignorant or even later assume that the knight was the villain; Nermesa did not want the caravan master’s death on his hands. Once he met up with Baron Sibelio again, Nermesa could get everything straightened out.
Without a word, he urged the horse past Polythemus, who simply watched in befuddlement. As Nermesa rode out of the yard, several men came running toward him, but they were too far away to be of any concern.
But he knew that he could not stop. It would take only moments before some of Mikonius’ men would mount up and be on his trail. Worse, they knew Karphur and beyond far better than Nermesa did. His present advantage would soon dissipate.
The Eye of Charon Page 18
