The Eye of Charon

by Richard A. Knaak

“This is neither the time nor the place, my dear Orena,” interjected the baron sternly. He glared at Morannus. “You! Guide your mistress back to her personal chambers this minute!”

  Morannus looked from the baron to Betavio, then to Nermesa. The knight tried to read the other Gunderman’s thoughts in his expression but failed.

  “Everything’s in hand here,” growled Betavio to his counterpart. “Do as he says!”

  Taking Orena’s arm, Morannus murmured, “Come, my lady! I warned that this might not be good—”

  But the baroness pulled free. “Antonus, I demand to know what is going on here! First, my sister barges into my room to tell me that he is alive, and then—”

  “Your sister knows?” The baron cursed. “Where is she?”

  “She kept insisting that we leave for Tarantia, but when I said that we should instead come to you, she ran off. I came here immediately—”

  “The stables . . .” Antonus hissed. He glanced toward Betavio, but the Gunderman was already on the move. He shoved past Morannus, who glanced briefly at Nermesa before returning his attention to his mistress.

  Nermesa started after Betavio, only to have the baron prick his throat with the tip of the gleaming sword. “Careful! This weapon is exceptionally well honed . . . as you no doubt know.”

  “Antonus!” began Orena again. “What is the—”

  “Return to your chambers, dear Orena. Morannus, see to it that she’s safe, yes?”

  Again, Morannus glanced at Nermesa. His hand went to the sword sheathed at his side.

  At that moment, half a dozen guards led by the Gunderman Nermesa had slugged in the dungeon poured into the study. They were followed by a figure more dread to the knight than all of them combined.

  Set-Anubis.

  Morannus immediately seized his mistress by the arm and ushered her to the doorway. Orena looked back at those within, first and foremost her husband and Nermesa. She gave the horrific sorcerer but a cursory glance, which baffled Nermesa until he came to the conclusion that the baroness—and likely Morannus—saw only “Caius,” one of her husband’s many insignificant minions.

  “Shut the door,” commanded the Baron Sibelio once his wife had been removed. Betavio’s second gestured at a guard, who obeyed.

  “So . . .” rasped Set-Anubis with a little mockery. “Cannot your legions of warriors keep one man prisoner without my assistance?”

  “Someone will pay for this, rest assured, dog,” his master returned. “And you shouldn’t speak so, having lost him in the woods during the raid and underneath the streets of Tebes.”

  The sightless spellcaster was defiant. “For the first, I must point out that I also had to shield your men from the eyes of the defenders and, as for the second, his will is great. I could guide a simpleminded beast to focus on him as prey, but I could not ask him to stand there and be eaten. My power—”

  “Has its limits.” The ring hand rose so that the emerald could be seen by the Eye of Charon.

  Set-Anubis had apparently been going to say something other than what the noble had, but he shut his mouth and nodded.

  A horn sounded warning from somewhere outside. Nermesa started for the window, and this time the baron let him pass. When two of the guards moved to grab the knight, Antonus waved them off.

  “There is no escape for him there. The bars are thick enough to prevent that.”

  Nermesa peered out into the night. A flurry of torches headed toward the stables while others congregated near the river flowing along the back of the estate house.

  They were all after Telaria.

  “You brought on her death, Nermesa,” his captor mocked. “It’s all your doing, what happens to her now.”

  Rage filled the Black Dragon. He spun about and lunged for the other noble. Perhaps he might have slipped past Antonus’ guard or maybe impaled himself on the weapon he had himself once wielded, but Set-Anubis gestured, and yet again Nermesa felt his body slow as if trapped in liquid amber. He froze with his clutching fingers almost within reach of the baron’s throat.

  “You let him get closer than he should’ve,” reprimanded the Baron Sibelio. “I might’ve had to kill him. And then what he knows would’ve been lost to me.”

  “A thousand pardons, my lord,” Set-Anubis answered, bowing low. “His will, as I mentioned.”

  Antonus tapped the tip of the blade on the floor as he stood there considering the motionless Nermesa. “Yes, I think it’s time to test the limits of that will. The longer we leave this one alive, the more burdensome he becomes. I want to know everything you can dig out of him, and I want it done here and now.”

  Set-Anubis’ suddenly eager voice set Nermesa on edge as the sorcerer said, “It will be done, but I need quiet.”

  With a gesture, the baron dismissed all but Betavio’s second and a lone guard. The Gunderman stood a short distance behind the sorcerer, expression brooding.

  “I want this done quickly, dog, understand that?”

  “Yes, my lord, I do.” There was a pause, then, “To me, fool. To me.”

  Nermesa’s body moved, but not by his will. Slowly it turned toward the shrouded, cadaverous form.

  Toward the bloodred gemstone . . .

  And as Nermesa helplessly faced Set-Anubis . . . as the Eye of Charon began to burn into his own . . . from without came the sound of another horn.

  “That signal! Well,” he heard Antonus remark almost pleasantly. “They’ve either caught her . . . or she’s dead. A pity, she was a beautiful woman . . .”

  Nermesa’s heart filled with despair . . . and in the next instant, the Eye of Charon used that despair to break through his resistance.

  The will of Set-Anubis engulfed his own.

  18

  NERMESA STRUGGLED THROUGH a bug-infested, mist-enshrouded swamp, aware that some party pursued him but not certain as to who they were. He heard behind him the baleful howls of hounds and the splashing of horses through the high, murky waters. Sinister horns blared, and whenever he looked back, the Aquilonian made out ominous shapes moving about in the fog.

  He ran. Where he headed, Nermesa did not know. He only understood that if he ceased running, it would be the end of him. The knight had nothing with which to defend himself; the sheath at his side was empty, and there was no dagger in his belt. He did not even have any armor, merely a thin tunic and kilt that did nothing to protect him against the elements.

  A pain suddenly shot through his right leg. He felt something soft squirming over the area. Reaching down, the knight tore the creature from his body. He paused to stare at a leech, but one larger and more vicious than any he had ever seen. It squirmed in his grip, seeking some area of his hand upon which to fasten its toothy sucker. Blood from his leg dripped down its thick, black body.

  Revulsion filling him, Nermesa crushed the leech. It died with a piercing squeal that echoed throughout the swamp and set the unseen hounds to new, eager cries.

  No sooner had he killed it, though, than another sharp pain warned Nermesa of a second leech on his knee. He tugged that free and threw it far, only to feel searing bites on several other parts of his legs.

  As Nermesa quickly sought to wipe the vermin from his body, he heard harsh splashing. A glance over his shoulder revealed the shadowed figure of a monstrous steed. Atop it, clad in dark armor and an oddly shaped, visored helm, a fearsome warrior swung over his head a ball-and-chain mace. He made no sound as he rode down upon his unarmed quarry, although the horse itself snorted lustily as if as eager for the kill as its master.

  The spiked ball came flying at Nermesa. He leapt aside, the foul sphere grazing his arm. The harsh pain as the spikes tore his flesh made the bites of the leeches seem like soft kisses.

  Nermesa slipped under the scum-covered surface. Even there, though, he was not safe. Something hard kicked at him, just missing his head. The horse’s gargantuan hooves. Again and again, they assailed the swamp, seeking the desperate knight.

  Twisting around them, Nermesa t
hrust out of the water near the animal’s flank. He seized the rider’s leg and shoved it free. Caught off guard, the armored figure slid over the other side, striking the water hard.

  Bolontes’ son leapt atop the horse . . . only to have the black beast rear up as if seeking to toss the interloper off. The horse spun about in the water. It twisted its head around and snapped at Nermesa as best it could, red eyes blazing with utter evil.

  Red eyes, the Aquilonian belatedly realized, that were made of crystal.

  Something suddenly gripped his leg. As Nermesa struggled to keep in the saddle, he saw that the rider had finally managed to rise from the waters. The fearsome warrior pulled himself up using the Aquilonian’s limb.

  For the first time, Nermesa saw the visored helm up close. He gasped, for it was an almost perfect representation of a spitting cobra, such as found in distant Stygia. The hood spread wide and the visor was actually the roof of the fanged mouth. Row upon row of intricate scales had been etched into the metal.

  But even more unsettling were the eyes, for they were red and glowed . . . and were identical to the monstrous orbs of the horse. The crimson eyes burned into his own, and when Nermesa sought to escape their gaze by looking to the face of his opponent, he discovered that, within the helm, he could see only utter blackness.

  Caught between the struggles of the horse and the attack of the rider, Nermesa was hard-pressed. At last, it proved impossible to maintain a hold. As the steed twisted again, Nermesa threw himself atop the shadowy warrior, sending both flailing into the swamp.

  Somewhere, another hound howled, but Nermesa had no time to worry about other threats. He flung his full force against the armored figure, shoving his foe deep under the surface. Gauntleted hands grabbed for his throat, the grated edges of the armored fingers ripping at his skin.

  As Nermesa fought, contrary thoughts assailed him from within. Even if he defeated this foe, there were others, so many others. He could never win against all of them. Would it not be simpler to surrender? To let them take him? At least there would be an end to the constant pursuit—

  No! I won’t! With a savage growl, the beleaguered knight pressed his assault. The serpent warrior’s own attack became reckless, uncontrolled. He shook violently beneath Nermesa.

  And then . . . lay still beneath the water.

  Gasping, Nermesa searched around the body for the mace but could not locate it. He felt along the unseen corpse, but there was no sword sheath, either.

  A chorus of growls filled his ears. In the shrouding mist, three horrific hounds approached. Like the horse and rider, they had bloodred, crystalline eyes that blazed. The head of each stood higher than his waist, and their combined weight surely topped his own.

  The hounds, their shapes indistinct save for their eyes, charged him.

  Nermesa ran his fingers along the bottom of the swamp, ignoring the leeches that immediately fastened on to him. The weapon had to be somewhere near! It had to be!

  His right hand touched a chain. The Aquilonian slid his fingers down and found the handle. He seized the mace just as the foremost of the hounds reached him.

  The spiked ball cracked the animal’s skull. The beast howled mournfully. It dropped limply into the swamp.

  Nermesa wasted no time to see if it was dead. He had the mace up and ready as the other pair neared.

  But as he glanced into the eyes of one, his strength seemed to fail him. Nermesa almost lost his grip on the mace. Only sheer will enabled him to regain control quick enough to keep from being overwhelmed by the two. With a cry, Nermesa unleashed a sweeping swing.

  One hound twisted out of range, its own attack faltering in the process. The ball struck the second in the shoulder with an audible crack. The injured beast yowled as it stumbled through the dank water.

  Without hesitation, Nermesa lunged at the one undamaged creature. Although there was a chill to the air, the knight’s body was covered in sweat. He swung once more, forcing the hound into retreat.

  But even as one foe fled him, others began coalescing in the fog. More hounds and, behind them, serpent warriors atop giant steeds as terrible as the first. Maces and swords drawn, they converged on the staggering Aquilonian.

  The urge to surrender to his fate again grew strong, but Nermesa defied it. Moreover, as he surveyed the horde gathering around him, something about it registered with his memory. Something about the many crimson eyes . . . the crystalline eyes . . .

  Then, he finally recalled what they meant. A grim smile played along his dirt-covered, scarred face.

  “Set them all upon me, sorcerer!” he growled toward the throng. “Send a thousand warriors and beasts at me, and I’ll still stand against them! You will slay me, but you’ll never get what you truly seek!” Nermesa glanced up into the mist-covered night, adding, “Nor will you, Baron!”

  The hounds howled. The horses splashed loudly through the swamp. The clank of metal as the riders approached echoed in Nermesa’s ears—

  And, suddenly, the entire sinister tableau became a fiery swirl. The swirl petrified, turning into a huge ruby . . .

  Nermesa stared at the Eye of Charon . . . and the scowling face of the sorcerer.

  “You’ve been at this for three hours,” muttered Antonus Sibelio from somewhere on Nermesa’s right. “I am growing very tired with your failures—”

  “Be still, cretin!” hissed Set-Anubis, leaning toward Nermesa. “Something has just happened! I would almost swear that he is—”

  Nermesa fought not to show any emotion. They did not yet realize that the knight had broken free of the sorcerer’s trance!

  Perhaps Set-Anubis had begun to take note, but his insolent reply had turned the baron’s attention to him. “Know your place, dog!” snapped Antonus. “Know how to speak to your betters!”

  Although nothing visible touched the spellcaster, Set-Anubis abruptly cried out and clutched his skull. The Eye of Charon pulsated oddly, alternating between a glow as bright as the sun and a bleak dullness somehow reminiscent of death. “By the demons of Stygia and Kush!” he snarled. “Enough!”

  “Perhaps not,” interrupted the Baron Sibelio. “Perhaps the removal of another finger is in order. Guard . . .”

  But as the nameless Gunderman left behind by Betavio moved toward the hooded figure, Nermesa acted.

  Closing on Set-Anubis, the Black Dragon seized the tormented sorcerer and threw him into the oncoming Gunderman. The lone guard on the knight’s left belatedly registered the prisoner’s renewed animation, but not in time to keep Nermesa from barreling into him. As the two collided with a table, Bolontes’ son grabbed for the man’s sword. He pulled it free, at the same time striking the guard under the chin.

  Even as the man fell back, Nermesa turned to face the baron.

  “Yes,” remarked Antonus, Nermesa’s sword already pointed toward the knight. “Very impressive . . . a shame to have to slay you, but you leave me no choice.”

  He thrust at the officer, moving with a fluidity and skill worthy of one of Nermesa’s fabled unit. The knight barely managed to meet his attack, then the one that came as quick as lightning after.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Nermesa noted the Gunderman rising. Shoving aside the still-moaning Set-Anubis, the bodyguard came for the Black Dragon. Nermesa quickly maneuvered toward the baron’s writing table, buying himself a moment’s respite from this second attacker.

  But Antonus himself was relentless, not letting up on his adversary for even an instant. He truly was as skilled as a Black Dragon, a fact that did not bode well for the weary Nermesa.

  Unlike the knight, Antonus seemed to revel in the battle. No doubt he saw his superior skill against one of the king’s most staunch defenders as a sign of the certainty of his ascension to the throne. As Nermesa veered to the right, he had the further dismaying image of the Baron Sibelio magnified, for the treacherous noble now stood with his back directly before his statue. It was almost as if Antonus’ twin urged him on.

  Noting
Nermesa’s distraction, the Gunderman lunged at him. Nermesa’s senses were more highly attuned than the bodyguard thought, though, and as the swordsman took a cut at his head, the knight ducked under his defenses and caught his second foe through the heart.

  The Gunderman fell into the table. He slid back to the floor, leaving in his wake a red trail across the piece of furniture.

  Unfortunately, in dealing with the one foe, Nermesa left himself open against Antonus. The Baron Sibelio jabbed at his sword arm, cutting a red line across Nermesa’s shoulder and nearly causing Bolontes’ son to drop his weapon.

  “Sorcery . . .” the baron all but spat. “Useful to a point, but hardly as valuable as a clever mind and a good sword arm, wouldn’t you agree, Nermesa? The great Set-Anubis! The mongrel was good for keeping the eyes of caravan guards blind to my men and alerting me to patrols before they could become hindrances, but not much else. The Eye of Charon! Ha! Nearly all of its vast power is but illusion! Small wonder with the likes of it that the wizards of Acheron eventually fell, so dependent were they upon such empty power . . .”

  Nermesa’s mind flashed back to his encounters with Set-Anubis. Perhaps the savage plant warriors and the storm that had assailed Malkuri’s home had been nothing but illusion, but, if so, then they had been very strong ones. Even more real had seemed the attack in the old catacombs, when the very dead had seemed ready to burst free of their vaults.

  All illusion? Nermesa could not help feel that there was more to Set-Anubis’ might than even Antonus understood.

  But whatever threat the renegade spellcaster had posed, he now lay on the floor like a bundle of rotting cloth, his hands still clutching his head in agony. The Eye of Charon—the dread Eye of Charon—could do nothing for him now. It startled Nermesa that Set-Anubis could be laid low so easily.

  But then, Antonus had the Tear, the only thing against which the Eye could not stand.

  The Baron Sibelio renewed his assault, forcing Nermesa back toward the windows. The noble’s face was full of confidence. Nermesa fought for breath, angrily aware that if he had not suffered through the ordeal that he had, the battle would have gone somewhat differently. Antonus was very good, but not so expert that the knight could not have beaten him.