The Eye of Charon

by Richard A. Knaak

  Keeping his head low, the sorcerer answered, “As I said, his will is very strong. It would be best simply to kill him.”

  “A shame. Still . . .”

  And as the knight watched in horror, Antonus reached to Nermesa’s sword hand. The treacherous baron peeled away the fingers clutching the weapon, then took the blade.

  Testing the weapon out with a few sweeps, Antonus marveled, “Such craftsmanship! Such beauty!”

  Without warning, he turned so that the sword’s tip ended right where Nermesa’s heart was. Yet, as the baron was about to follow through with the killing thrust, a third voice interjected.

  “No . . .”

  The lord of House Sibelio glanced past his prisoner. “You think he should not die?”

  “No, not yet,” continued the other, someone whose voice Nermesa should have known but could not yet identify. “He knows more . . . or at least has suspicions worth hearing. More important, he has other knowledge of great use to you. Knowledge of things close to the barbarian.”

  Antonus turned the blade about, letting the point now rest in the ground. He used the weapon as a staff upon which to lean. His smile grew broader. “Yes, you’re right! You serve me well, Betavio!”

  The Gunderman came around to gaze at Nermesa. The cruel bent of his mouth indicated that nothing would please him more than when the knight did perish.

  “As always, my lord, as always,” the bodyguard responded quietly.

  Set-Anubis showed his displeasure at any suggestion of keeping the knight breathing. “His will being strong, it may take time to break him. Much time.”

  “I will not be slowed,” the baron insisted. “We must return to Tarantia.”

  Betavio nodded his agreement. With malice in his eyes, he poked at Nermesa, causing the knight to teeter dangerously. “Aye, my lord. Nothing must prevent that. Therefore, I’ll see to it that the fool is kept secreted for the rest of the journey . . . if this dog here can keep him in such a state.”

  “It will take much focus on my part. I will be unable to do little else in that time.”

  “All else goes as planned,” Antonus remarked. “I see no reason that we would need your magic for anything other than this. But bind and gag him just in case, eh?”

  Poking at Nermesa again, the Gunderman grunted. “With pleasure, my lord.”

  The Baron Sibelio held high the knight’s sword. Nermesa silently cursed Antonus over and over as the other noble toyed with the exquisite weapon.

  “I will keep this,” Antonus proclaimed. “It is a fitting blade for me, isn’t it, Betavio?”

  “Fit for a king, I’d say, my lord.”

  The baron’s eyes lit up. He smiled at Nermesa. “Yes, fit for a king . . . which I will soon enough be.”

  Betavio chuckled and, as Nermesa still stared aghast at what Antonus had revealed, pushed the frozen knight over.

  16

  TO NERMESA, NO hell created by any god could compare with the horrendous ordeal through which he suffered for the rest of the journey back to Tarantia. Betavio had eagerly bound and gagged him as commanded, then tossed the hapless knight into the Baron Sibelio’s private wagon under a suffocating mass of rich, silken cloths. There, Bolontes’ son had lain helplessly while the wagons plodded along. He could not move so much as a finger and when voices neared that he thought might belong to someone who could help, his mouth would not work.

  Worse, he discovered that he could not sleep, either. Whatever mesmerism or spell Set-Anubis had cast upon him prevented the knight from doing so. For hour after hour, Nermesa could only think about his monstrous failure, think about what a fool he had been.

  Once, on the very first night after his capture, he had briefly thought that he might yet free himself. Just after the wagons halted, Nermesa noticed that two of his fingers suddenly twinged. He worked on them, managing to make one bend at his will.

  However, before Nermesa could accomplish any more, Betavio and the sorcerer had come for him.

  “Raise him to a sitting position,” demanded Set-Anubis, the insidious glow of the Eye of Charon preceding both him and the Gunderman into the darkened wagon.

  “I know what to do, dog.” Betavio had propped up the captive, turning Nermesa’s unblinking gaze to where the sorcerer stood waiting.

  “You have no choice but to look,” murmured Set-Anubis to the knight. “You have no choice but to see only the Eye of Charon . . .”

  It was true. Nermesa could look nowhere else. The foul crimson glow burned into his own eyes, into his very mind. He fought it as best he could, but in the end, Nermesa felt his fingers stiffening once more.

  And by the time that they left him, he was in no better shape than when first ensorcelled.

  Each evening thereafter, when apparently there was no fear of notice, the pair returned and Set-Anubis reinforced the spell. They never asked questions of Nermesa. From their cautious nature, he had to assume that there were others traveling with the column, others who did not share the evil secret between the three men. Like any caravan, there were probably several wealthy travelers included in it. Along with them might travel family and servants. Antonus had to be careful that none of them discovered the truth. It would be too great a risk trying to mesmerize all of them.

  As for whatever foul spell Set-Anubis cast upon him, in addition to not needing sleep, the captive knight discovered that he also did not have to eat, drink, or deal with the necessary consequences of either. While his mind remained active, his entire body seemed to be in some sort of suspended animation. Only his very light breathing gave any hint that Nermesa was not dead.

  He eventually lost track of the days despite his best efforts. It hardly seemed to matter, anyway. Nermesa was a helpless prisoner, doomed to betray all that he knew concerning his mission and, from what had been said in the tent, what he knew of the workings of the palace.

  I have been blind! Nermesa thought over and over. He had not made the final link, though it had been there, that Mikonius and his ilk could not organize such a plan on their own. They needed someone of more cunning and of high station. Someone with a network spreading across the various realms already.

  Baron Antonus Sibelio.

  Nermesa had been fooled by the fact that even the baron had lost a couple of caravans. There was no consolation in knowing that so many others, even General Pallantides, had been fooled by Antonus. It had been Nermesa’s task—given to him by the king, no less—to unravel the mysteries. In that he had failed utterly. If not for the fact that many others might suffer should the baron’s plan unfold as expected, Bolontes’ son would have almost welcomed his eventual murder. His blunders were a mark of shame on both his House and Aquilonia.

  Yet there remained a niggling hope that Mitra would grant him some slight miracle, some last opportunity to redeem himself. The likelihood of that all but shrank to nil, though, when Nermesa realized that they had finally reached the capital.

  He could not say exactly when they arrived in the vicinity—most sounds were muffled by the silks atop him—but the constant groaning of the wagon as it turned this way and that and the slowly rising murmur in his ears told him that they had to be near some major settlement. Still, as Corialan surely would have been behind them by now and no other sizable population center existed in between, Nermesa could only assume that what he noted were the first hints of Tarantia. He yearned for his voice, but even a shout would likely have gone unnoticed in the noise of traffic.

  Nermesa had some vague hope that the guards at the city gates would inspect the wagons, but then he realized that Antonus was probably not even heading for the capital itself. The baron had a sizable holding out in the countryside, a vast estate with fields worked by scores of serfs. Nermesa had passed it once while returning from the Westermarck with the brigand, Khatak, and had even spoken briefly with the other noble during that time. It was yet another irony that while the knight had been escorting one terrible scoundrel to justice, another, even more base villain h
ad been pleasantly chatting with him.

  The wagons continued to thump over the well-worn road, jostling Bolontes’ son about. Frustrated, Nermesa tried to summon some sort of physical reaction . . . and to his surprise felt his wrist obey.

  Emboldened, he forced it to flex twice more, then concentrated on his fingers. They proved less amenable, his efforts, and Nermesa began to grow frustrated again. Finally, however, his thumb twitched slightly.

  But, just then, Nermesa belatedly noticed that the wagon had come to a stop. Seconds later, a figure entered and began tossing aside the silks. An ugly face peered down at the frozen figure.

  “You’ll be happy to know that you’re back in your beloved Tarantia, my lord,” Betavio sneered.

  Nermesa was cautious not to let even the slightest movement happen as the Gunderman dragged him out.

  “Help me with this dog,” he commanded another of his countrymen. The other Gunderman took hold of Nermesa’s legs. “We take him to the lower cells.”

  Grunting, the pair hefted Nermesa, then carried him through an old, dimly lit corridor. Nermesa caught glimpses of arched columns covered with traces of moss. Fine veins revealed where time had begun its slow work of dismantling the structure crack by crack. The smell of mold wafted by Nermesa’s nostrils, the only sense other than sight and hearing still left to the captive officer.

  Other than the scrapes of his guards’ boots and their heavy breathing as they lugged their burden, Nermesa heard nothing else. Familiar with some of the old, old estates of Tarantia, he knew that the type of cells of which Betavio spoke could be several levels below the stately residence. The tender ears of jaded nobles could not be bothered with the sounds of their victims. The knight gave thanks that his own family’s holdings did not, to his knowledge, include such a vile legacy.

  The Gundermen abruptly halted.

  “This one here,” commanded Betavio.

  “There’s no door left on it,” grumbled the other.

  “The chains are all that matter. They’re strong.”

  He was maneuvered into the darkened room, where the second Gunderman set his feet to the ground. Betavio shoved Nermesa into the other’s arms. A moment later, light entered the dank chamber, and Betavio’s voice said, “Over there.”

  On the far wall, a pair of manacles hung. They were red with rust, but when the Gunderman holding Nermesa tested one, it held.

  He spun the Aquilonian about. Bolontes’ son caught sight of Betavio setting a small torch in a niche just outside the doorway. Baron Sibelio’s bodyguard then stepped inside and helped his comrade unbind the prisoner.

  “Not quite as comfortable as the wagon, my lord,” smirked Betavio. “But you won’t be alive long enough to be very bothered by it.”

  They stood his motionless form straight, then brought one hand up to one of the chains.

  But as they did, Nermesa struggled with the other. The movement he had sensed returning seemed to be spreading. If there was anything that the knight hoped to do to save himself, now was the time to do it.

  Unseen, his fingers clenched. He managed to shift his hand to the other manacle.

  Drawing upon every iota of strength, Nermesa seized the loose chain and swung it around. He smashed Betavio in the side of the head as hard as he could.

  Grunting, the lead Gunderman dropped. His companion gaped, which gave Nermesa the chance he had been hoping for. He pulled his other wrist free, then grabbed that of the Gunderman.

  As the first hand came up, Nermesa’s captor moved to protect himself from what he thought was a punch. Instead, the Aquilonian used both hands to press his foe’s wrist into the manacle, then clamp it shut.

  Cursing, Betavio’s companion grabbed for his dagger. This time, Nermesa did punch him, then threw the staggering villain hard against the cell wall. Another punch finally downed the Gunderman.

  Betavio still lay stunned on the floor. Nermesa, his legs unsteady, bent down and drew the Gunderman’s sword. Staggering back and forth, the knight headed for the corridor—

  And nearly ran into Set-Anubis.

  Both stood as if suddenly frozen by the sorcerer’s insidious spell. The Eye of Charon glimmered evilly, drinking in the image of the escaping Black Dragon and his two stunned captors.

  Set-Anubis chuckled. “A grand sight I will long remember! Would that it was his master that lay there at your feet ...”

  His words struck Nermesa. “You don’t willingly serve the baron?”

  “Would one such as I ever freely serve some base, opportunistic noble with petty ambitions? Fool of an Aquilonian! It is only cursed circumstance that forces me to bow to the will of this miscreant, someone whom I would willingly feed to the demons of Acheron bit by screaming bit if I could! Yet, so long as he holds the Tear, I must grovel even to these mongrels . . .”

  “The Tear?”

  “The Tear of Charon, you fool! That which was created by Charon to unlock the power of this, even older, artifact upon which he then also audaciously placed his name!” Set-Anubis gestured angrily at the crimson gem. “It is the baron who chanced upon it after it was stolen by the damned Kushites! They thought to slay me with it, but I struck first. Yet, one, already dying, fled with the stone and was found by your cursed baron in the deserts of Stygia! The Aquilonian coveted the stone, and when he learned that it also had power, he kept the Kushite alive long enough to discover the truth . . .”

  “And so he found out about you, too.”

  “Yes! As sightless as if I did not wear the Eye, I blundered into his very hands and have remained his slave ever since . . .” The sorcerer raised his hands toward Nermesa. “But some commands of his I do not mind so much to obey—”

  The knight thrust up his own hand. “Wait! I can be of help to you!”

  “Ha! You! In what manner?”

  “Leave me be, and I’ll take the ring from the baron!”

  For just a brief moment, it seemed that Set-Anubis considered his offer. Then, reason returned. “And you would give it to me? How doubtful! Besides—” He extended one hand in particular. Only then did Nermesa notice that it missed the two lower fingers. They had clearly been severed, then the wounds hastily and brutally cauterized. “—even I have learned the price of attempting to betray him in so bold a manner . . .”

  Nermesa lunged, aiming with his blade for where he hoped the sorcerer’s black heart beat.

  But Set-Anubis muttered a single word, and the Aquilonian’s movements slowed to a crawl, then ceased altogether.

  “Dolt!” Set-Anubis’ insult did not seem to be focused on Nermesa, however, for the Eye seemed to look past the frozen figure. “Must I do everything?”

  “Be silent, dog!” growled Betavio. There was shuffling behind Nermesa, and the lead Gunderman stepped around into view. He glared at the prisoner. “I should slit your gullet—”

  “Aah, but the dear baron would not approve,” cackled the sorcerer. “And I know how much you wish to keep him happy . . . for now.”

  Betavio gave Set-Anubis a murderous glance, then returned his attention to Nermesa. “This is your fault, spellcaster. Not mine,” he muttered, peeling the sword free from the knight’s grip. “Your magic wore off!”

  “Yes . . . as I told the baron, this Nermesa Klandes is a mortal of great will! This new spell I have cast will not hold him long!”

  Betavio snorted. “Then the better to rely on good, solid metal before that happens.”

  He shoved the hapless prisoner back. Nermesa collided with the wall. Betavio then went to the other Gunderman, slapping his comrade across the face.

  As the second guard stirred, Betavio took a small key from his belt and worked on the manacle. With effort, he released the other Gunderman, then thrust Nermesa’s wrist in. With a fateful click, the manacle shut.

  “The other . . . if you can manage it.”

  The second guard finished locking Nermesa up as Betavio stepped back.

  “Shall I begin to question him?” asked Set-Anubis.
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  “Not now, dog! You know that the baron wishes to be here for it and at the moment, he’s got other matters on his mind . . .”

  Now it was the hooded figure who snorted. “The woman ...”

  “Aye . . . the woman. Speak well of her in my presence, dog, for she is important to the plan.”

  Nermesa realized that they talked about Orena. Despite all that had come between them, he suddenly feared for his former betrothed. She had in part married Baron Sibelio in order to seek revenge for what she had seen as Nermesa’s humiliation of her, but surely had never suspected that he had used her in turn.

  The journey had given Nermesa much time to think about what Antonus was up to. He sought to weaken King Conan either by making the Cimmerian seem complicit with the brigands or too weak to deal with them. Worse, the instability caused by the growing distrust of the various kingdoms threatened total anarchy. A strong Aquilonia could hold the rest together—even those considered enemies—but without Nermesa’s homeland, the rest would soon collapse, even if they did not realize it.

  Or would they? Were there indeed others like Ambassador Zoran who sought to profit from their own realm’s mishaps? Like Antonus, did Zoran’s ambitions reach to the throne? What about in Ophir or the larger of the Corinthian city-states?

  The Corinthians . . . much of the chaos could be traced there, to when once-insignificant Sarta had suddenly gathered the wit and strength to seize power over its neighbors. The baron had many contacts in Corinthia; had he secretly instigated the seizing of the pass?

  “Now this cur will stay until he’s needed,” Betavio remarked as he signaled the other Gunderman to come with him. They and Set-Anubis stepped out into the corridor, where Antonus’ bodyguard took one last look at Nermesa. “Enjoy yourself there. The baron’s entertaining tonight, so you’ll have plenty of time to remember everything of value that you know . . . if you want your death to be relatively painless.”