The Eye of Charon

by Richard A. Knaak

  The gate through which they had arrived seemed his best bet. At least beyond them the countryside would give him a better chance of survival. He dared not seek the assistance of the Karphur Guard, for they were more likely to take the word of Mikonius—a prominent and established representative of a powerful merchant—over someone claiming to be a member of the King of Aquilonia’s Black Dragons.

  Again, Nermesa pondered the caravan master’s betrayal. Why Mikonius Flavius had waited until Karphur still made no sense, but the overall reason for the assassination had somehow to involve the attacks on merchant wagons plaguing the various realms. Mikonius had seemed to be a very fortunate man; he had never been attacked. Could that be because he was in league with the villains? It was the only thing that made sense.

  Antonus Sibelio must have been congratulating himself on having hired such a fortunate man as Mikonius, not suspecting that his own employee was using his position to enrich himself and his cronies. House Sibelio had lost a few caravans of its own, but not nearly as many as others. Mikonius did not want his own employer falling into ruin, for that would leave him without the means to travel to one land or another, no doubt trading information on vulnerable columns from other merchants with various cronies.

  Perhaps there was more to it, or perhaps Nermesa had it completely wrong. In his harried mind, however, it was the only course that made sense so far. Assuming he escaped Karphur, he could worry about pursuing the matter further.

  It had been the knight’s hope that, this late at night, he would be able to slip through the city easier. Unfortunately, the market—through which he had to ride—was as busy as ever. His steed was forced to a crawl as he fought through a drunken and entertainment-minded crowd. Briefly, his thoughts returned to Romulo, somehow forced to betray Nermesa despite what the latter had done for his brother. In the end, honor had caused Romulo to sacrifice his life for the knight, and for that Nermesa thanked his spirit. He wished that he could have done something about the driver’s body, but such a hesitation would have likely meant Nermesa’s undoing—not at all what Romulo had desired.

  In the distance, he finally made out the darkened shape of the gate. Nermesa still had to get past the guards stationed there, but as they likely had nothing to do with those hunting him, he could not see any reason why they would hold him for long.

  As he had done throughout his flight, Nermesa glanced over his shoulder to see if Mikonius’ men had caught up yet. There was still no sign. That raised his hopes. Once he was through the gates, their chances of catching him would drop considerably.

  An officer in the golden garb of the Karphur Guard stepped in front of him as Nermesa neared. “Halt! State your name, your country, and any articles upon you that we might find of interest.”

  “My name is Captain Nermesa Klandes of Aquilonia, on business for his majesty, King Conan. I have nothing upon my person save my sword.”

  “And why do leave at such a strange hour, Captain?” The officer looked Nermesa over, seeking some clue to the truth.

  Leaning down, the knight smiled and muttered, “I spent a little too much time with a lady, of course. Now, I’ll need to ride back to Tarantia with all haste if I’m to avoid punishment.”

  The Karphurian took him at his word. With a slight grin of his own, he gestured for Nermesa to go past. “Safe journey, Captain . . .”

  But as the gates opened for him, someone farther back called out, “Stop! Stop that murderer!”

  Nermesa kicked his horse, urging the animal to swift speed. He tore through the gates even as the guards sought to shut them again. Behind him, the Aquilonian heard more shouts. Someone blew a horn. Nermesa cursed, aware that he now might also have the Guard aiding his enemies in their pursuit.

  But he dared not try to explain. Instead, the knight rode as hard as he could for the mountains, hoping that somewhere in them he would not only lose any hunters, but at last find his way into Aquilonia.

  The dark shapes of the Karpash Mountains opened up well ahead. Nermesa focused only on them. He had to assume that he was being chased and that they would do their best to catch him. His mount raced along the road at the best speed it could surely muster.

  Something suddenly whizzed past his head. It was almost immediately followed by another. There was at least one archer among the riders behind him. Despite the night, the shafts were flying too near the Black Dragon’s head. Recalling what had happened in the mountains, Nermesa forced his horse to a twisting path. It slowed his progress slightly, but he hoped that it would prevent either him or the animal from ending up with an arrow through them.

  A horn blared behind him. Moments later, another responded from ahead. Bolontes’ son could only assume that there lay an outpost or lone sentry somewhere farther on. His pursuers hoped to catch him between them.

  He had to abandon the path completely. Steering to the right, Nermesa headed for a lightly wooded, hilly area. In there, perhaps the night would enable him to blend in with his surroundings.

  But just as he neared it, from his left there came two riders. By the glint they caused in the pale moonlight, he took them for Karphurian soldiers. Nermesa gripped his sword tight, but he was loath to use it against men whose only offense was that they mistakenly believed him to be a brigand or murderer.

  Unfortunately, he quickly realized that the foremost would reach him before Nermesa managed the woods. Grim-faced, the Aquilonian met his new attacker blade to blade. Nermesa likely could have easily defeated his opponent if he sought to slay him, but because he desired only to defend, the knight soon found himself in trouble.

  “I’ve no quarrel with you!” he finally shouted to the armored figure.

  “Surrender, knave!” demanded the Karphurian in turn. “Surrender or die!”

  There was no use trying to reason with his adversary. Nermesa finally brought the fight to the guard. Startled by the sudden shift in fortunes, the Karphurian desperately countered what he thought was Nermesa’s main attack . . . but which was in fact a feint.

  The Aquilonian’s blade suddenly slipped over the guard’s own. Nermesa drove the tip in deep, but at the shoulder of the sword arm, not the throat. Dropping his weapon, the other fighter grabbed at his wound.

  Nermesa punched him soundly, sending him sprawling off his mount.

  The second rider was nearly upon him. Seizing the reins of the first man’s horse, Nermesa led the animal in front of the oncoming guard. The momentary confusion enabled the knight to gain a few precious paces on his pursuer as he headed for the woods.

  The horse’s heavy hooves thrashed the underbrush as Nermesa rode madly through the shadowed region. He could scarcely see ahead and hoped that the same would hold true for the Karphurians and Mikonius’ villains. The landscape ahead began to rise, the first hint of the looming mountain range.

  Barely had he entered when he heard the first sound of someone following him into the woods. Nermesa assumed it to be the lone guard, but then more thrashing arose. The other hunters had caught up quicker than he had anticipated.

  Someone shouted. There was a crash and a groan. Nermesa took some heart from the unseen disaster, but a brief stumble by his own horse mere seconds after was a reminder that matters could change at any moment. A single misstep could spell disaster for him.

  On and on Nermesa rode, his surroundings growing far more treacherous than even he had hoped. Despite those behind him, the Aquilonian was forced to pick and choose his path more and more. He prayed that none among the hunters knew the region well enough to make his forced slowness fatal.

  Then Nermesa’s mount tripped. The knight struggled valiantly with the reins, but the animal stumbled madly along, heading down a sharp incline.

  Whether through the will of Mitra or sheer luck, the horse righted itself at the bottom. For Nermesa, Mitra or luck did not serve him as well at first. As the animal jerked to a stop, the Aquilonian was thrown from the saddle. Only quick action by Nermesa kept him from crashing headfirst into a
nearby tree trunk. Instead, he rolled past it, striking his left shoulder hard against a rock but breaking no bones.

  His shoulder numb and his arm momentarily useless because of it, Bolontes’ son retrieved his sword—which he had lost in his fall—with his right hand. Sheathing it, Nermesa grabbed the horse by the reins and, after quickly checking the animal for possible injury, fought to mount up again.

  But before he could, movement caught his attention. By the rustling of the leaves he guessed at least two, maybe three riders were in the vicinity.

  Nermesa stepped down again and silently guided his horse to an area where he hoped they would blend into the darkness. Cupping the animal’s mouth, the Black Dragon waited.

  In the dim moonlight, murky forms that looked more like multilimbed demons than men on horseback moved through the woods. Nermesa heard the clink of metal on metal and assumed the figures to be part of the Guard. Despite his unwillingness to do battle with them, Nermesa drew his sword the moment that his arm allowed, then held it ready. However duped they might be, he would not let even them slay him—especially now that he had possible clues to his mission to pass on to General Pallantides.

  “He had to come over this way,” muttered one figure.

  “Silence in the ranks!” hissed what had to be the voice of the commanding officer.

  Several more figures slowly wended their way by, then one paused near where Nermesa waited. To the Aquilonian’s displeasure, the rider urged his mount down.

  But scarcely had the steed begun to descend, when it nearly fell. Only barely did the horse right itself.

  With a curse that mixed Ophirian and Corinthian, the armored figure tugged on the reins, guiding his mount back up. Nermesa could only assume that since the man’s own horse had nearly killed itself trying to descend so cautiously, the guard believed it impossible for their quarry to have made it down safely at any speed.

  At last, the searchers moved on. Yet, Nermesa still dared not leave his shelter. It was possible that they would return the way they had come. He had no choice but to wait.

  Precious minutes slipped away as he listened for any hint of either their presence or that of Mikonius’ men. Finally, when he could stand it no more, Nermesa quietly started to guide his animal along in search of a better place to ride back up.

  At last finding it, Nermesa led the horse on for a pace, then mounted. He heard a night bird and some small creature sniffing about the bushes, but still nothing of those giving chase.

  Satisfied at last that he had escaped their clutches, Nermesa urged his mount to a steady pace. Over the trees, he could just make out the now-looming silhouette of first of the Karpash Mountains. Assuming that there were no more obstacles, he could cross them and in a few days be in outer Aquilonia.

  Nermesa licked his lips. But before he could even begin to worry about the mountains, he needed water. Food he could survive without for the time being, but the chase had built up in the knight a terrible thirst. In a woods such as this, there had to be some source of open water.

  It was some time, though, before he came across that needed source. Afraid to deviate from his path, he likely had missed at least one other. Still, the shallow river that Nermesa finally found looked more than ample for his needs. If not for the possibility of pursuit still behind him, it would have even made for an ideal place to camp.

  Despite the tranquillity of the dark scene, the Aquilonian approached the river with caution. The Karphurian commander might have sent some of his men to follow the line of this river on the assumption that their quarry would need to pause along the way.

  Within a few yards of it, Nermesa dismounted. Sword in one hand and reins in the other, he crossed the final distance. Contrary to his own hesitation, his horse immediately sought a drink. Nermesa watched the animal for a few seconds, then shifted upriver to satisfy his own thirst.

  He drank slowly at first, still wary of attackers. Yet, as more time passed and nothing happened, Nermesa relaxed slightly. When he had drunk his fill, he went back to the horse and searched through the saddlebags to see what he could find. There were some dried rations, which he stored for later need, and an empty water sack. The latter he quickly filled, then hooked it onto the saddle.

  Climbing back up, Nermesa eyed the mountains. He saw them only as an impediment, not a barrier. One way or another, he was determined that he would this time return to Aquilonia.

  But whether he would make it all the way to Tarantia alive was another matter entirely.

  15

  THE KARPASH MOUNTAINS were by no means simple to cross, but cross them Nermesa did. It took him days of carefully guiding his mount over winding, precarious paths and nights of cold, unsettled slumber, where often he and the horse had only each other for warmth. The dried rations lasted him two days, the water three. Fortunately, Nermesa found water along the way, some of it melting snow. He also managed to catch a small mountain goat, which gave him the sustenance he needed to continue the trek. His horse survived on hardy mountain plants . . . and drank the water he provided.

  And thus it was that, six days later by his reckoning, he finally descended into a long, grassy plain that marked the first sight of his homeland that he had had in weeks.

  Nermesa came across the first settlement—a small village—a day later. The villagers were friendly enough and, in exchange for helping one family with their farm duties, he received a place in the barn to sleep and food to fill his grumbling belly. Out of necessity, the knight stayed for two days, but then pushed on immediately the following morning.

  From his hosts, Nermesa learned that he had come out of one of the less-traveled areas of the mountains, which was why he had not run across one of the patrols constantly monitoring Aquilonia’s borders. He had been told that if he stayed for three more days, one likely would have passed by, but Nermesa could not wait that long. Besides, the patrol would then have only taken him to Vanadi, an outpost several more days southwest. In the same time span, Nermesa could nearly be home.

  And so, Bolontes’ son continued on alone, but at least he was well fed and better clad. His saddlebags had sufficient food, and the farmer in whose barn he had stayed had told him of three points along the way where the Black Dragon could replenish his supplies before they were all used up.

  Much encouraged now, Nermesa made great headway. Tarantia lay northwest of him, but before that, he would reach Corialan, a smaller—yet still-vibrant—city where there would be a military presence. They could then send word ahead for him.

  Five days beyond the village, he turned onto what was the preferred route from Tarantia to Corinthia, which placed him very near the path that he and the caravan had been taking for Nemedia as well. The route should have been more active, but Nermesa saw no other travelers that day or the next. The successful attacks on the much larger caravans had made individual pilgrims fearful.

  Still, he did come across a wagon driven by a priest of Mitra out seeking wayward members of the flock. The elder, balding priest was happy to give Nermesa his blessing and even happier, it seemed, to pass on news of events back in the capital, even if they might not be exactly what Nermesa wanted to hear.

  “Aye, my son, I only left Tarantia a fortnight ago, so the news is not all that old. The king still seeks his trade agreement with the surrounding lands, but ’tis not likely at this point. Nemedia accuses Corinthia, Corinthia accuses Ophir—and itself, too, being of many parts—Ophir accuses Corinthia, and Kush accuses both of them. In turn, they all claim some responsibility on his majesty himself, nearly declaring that King Conan is reverting to his old ways . . .”

  Nermesa had wondered when the Cimmerian’s past would be brought up in this situation. “Any other news?”

  “Corinthia may soon be at war with itself, and Ophir and Nemedia involved. Kush and Argos are watching this close, seeing if Ophir is ripe . . .” The old priest shook his head. “We of Mitra hear more than most . . . and more than we like, at times . . .”

&nbs
p; The knight bid the elder farewell and rode on. Much of what Nermesa had heard from him the officer had known already. The rest had verified his earlier fears. It was bad enough that so many accusations flew concerning the brigands, but the Corinthian situation seemed ready to boil over. Had Nermesa been a paranoid man, he would have almost suspected the threats linked.

  Could that be? But for such a thing to be possible would demand coordination on a scale Nermesa could not imagine. Those involved would have to have agents in every one of the affected kingdoms, agents in positions of power.

  He was still pondering the subject two days later when, in the distance, he spotted the caravan.

  It was long, very long, and headed toward Tarantia from the looks of it. Nermesa could not initially make out the markings or the banners, but thought that it must be Aquilonian. He debated whether or not to ride to it. Not every caravan master could be in league with Mikonius Flavius, after all. Most would be honest men.

  Taking a chance, Nermesa rode closer. If he could at least identify the caravan, he would have a better idea as to whether or not to trust them.

  The wagons definitely had an Aquilonian look to them. He had hoped to make out the banners, but the day was all but windless, causing the pennants to hang limply. There were symbols on the wagons, but to see them clearly he had to approach even closer.

  As he did, four riders separated from the main column and headed his way. Nermesa debated turning away, but the caravan was journeying the same direction as he, meaning that it would always be in his path. To detour around it would cost him several days more.

  He realized that all four riders were Gundermen. More important, as they neared, he saw that one of them was known to him.

  “My lord Nermesa . . .” called Betavio, looking somewhat startled. “That is you, yes?”

  “Aye, Betavio!” Nermesa had never been so pleased to see the Gunderman. Whatever their differences, his presence here meant only one thing—that his master Antonus also rode with the caravan. “You’re a sight for sore eyes!”