But the truth was that Nermesa was not at his best, and it was all he could do to keep from being skewered. Worse, the baron began to play at his emotions, seeking to erode further the Black Dragon’s defenses.
“We must end this soon. After all, I will have to console my dear bride, Nermesa . . . you see, she’s just lost her sister, her only family . . .”
“Telaria . . .” Nermesa muttered, his anger flaring anew. “Damn you . . .”
“Don’t you worry. Soon enough, you can be with her.” The baron grinned. “I understand that she drowned in the river. If you like, I can toss your body in it. Perhaps you’ll float to wherever her corpse lies . . .”
“Damn you!” Bolontes’ son roared. He lunged, almost catching Antonus off guard. Unfortunately, the noble managed to parry his strike.
“Well played! Did your father teach you some of your swordplay? When I see him to give my condolences, I’ll be sure to compliment him. It’s the least I can do—”
They were interrupted by pounding on the door outside. The baron stepped back, giving Nermesa a moment of respite. Both men expected guards to come bursting through the door, but the pounding just continued on and on.
“Well?” shouted Antonus, growing angry. “Why don’t you enter, you—”
A horn sounded in the distance, a signal with three short notes followed by one long one. It was not at all like the mournful dirge Nermesa had heard in the nightmarish swamp Set-Anubis had conjured in his mind. This signal he recognized, and that recognition set his heart skipping with hope.
It was the battle notes of none other than the king’s Black Dragons.
“My lord!” called Betavio from without. “There is a contingent of soldiers from Tarantia approaching! If the knight is found in these walls, they’ll have cause to arrest us!”
The baron lowered the sword. “Then come and take him quickly, you dolt!” To Nermesa, he mocked, “I’ve had my sport . . . and I’ll still keep this fine weapon, even if I must hide it for a time.”
Nermesa kept waiting for the guards to come barging in, but they still remained behind the door. He tried to edge around the table. If he could reach the baron before they could seize him, then at least Antonus would not live to see the knight’s death.
“You know what that means, that General Pallantides and the Black Dragons are on their way,” he said to his adversary. “That means that Telaria survived. That means that they know the truth! Even if I die, you will still end up in Traitor’s Common . . .”
Bringing up the point of the sword again, the Baron Sibelio shook his head. “No . . . they will only have the word of a distraught woman who, despite the love and care of her sister and her sister’s mate, finally lost her mind trying to deal with the death of the man she cared for. They will likely even give her into Orena’s permanent custody . . . and mine.”
Nermesa tried to think. He wanted to deny the baron’s words, but they made some terrible sense. The weary knight could not be certain that things would play out just as Antonus suggested . . .
The banging on the door reached a crescendo. Betavio called out to his master.
The baron’s gaze flickered toward the entrance. “What is the matter? Enter, damn you! Break down the door if—”
Now! urged a voice in Nermesa’s head. Strike now! The time is opportune!
His thoughts filled with horrible visions of Telaria at the mercy of the man before him, Nermesa swung with all his skill and might. Yet, he did not strike for his foe’s heart—as he had originally intended—but rather for one of the baron’s hands.
The hand upon which Antonus wore the Tear of Charon.
The other noble let out a scream as Nermesa severed not one but three fingers from the hand—including that which had worn the ring. The lost fingers scattered on the floor, the one most significant tumbling toward Nermesa.
Despite the gruesome nature of his prize, Nermesa instinctively seized the ring. The baron made no move to prevent him, made no move whatsoever. He stood there, the Black Dragon’s sword dropped at his feet, clutching the maimed limb with his good hand.
“I—will—have you flayed—alive, then burned, for—this outrage!”
“A very good suggestion . . .” rasped a chilling voice that made both men look to the side. “I shall take special pleasure in making use of it myself.”
Set-Anubis, looking completely recovered, faced the two men. The sorcerer smiled malevolently . . . but at the Baron Sibelio, not Nermesa.
“Deal with him, dog!” snapped Antonus, evidently oblivious as to who was the focus of the hooded figure’s hatred. The baron stumbled to his table, where he grabbed a decorative cloth and quickly bound it around his ruined hand. “I want nothing left to trace.”
“They will only find the Baron Antonus Sibelio when they enter this chamber,” Set-Anubis assured him. Yet, to Nermesa, the Eye of Charon glittered evilly at the noble. “Only the baron.”
The sorcerer muttered under his breath. The flame in each lamp in the chamber froze—and then from the lamps shot forth streams of fire that arced through the air before striking their target mercilessly.
That target being Baron Antonus Sibelio.
The unsuspecting baron barely uttered a gasp, much less a howl of agony. The flames wrapped around him like hungry tendrils, engulfing him in a matter of seconds. He struggled to escape them, but his feet did not seem to move. The would-be king at last screamed as he sought futilely to beat off the flames.
Finally, Antonus fell to his knees. Through the fire, Nermesa could see that his flesh had all nearly been burned away. Charred remnants of his fine garments hung over the collapsing body.
The baron fell in an awful heap, yet, still the fires consumed him. He burned and burned until there was nothing left to burn. Only then did the flames retreat to their wicks again.
Where the Baron Sibelio had stood, there was now no sign, not even a single hint of ash.
Set-Anubis cackled. “Tell me, Nermesa Klandes . . . do you consider that mere illusion?”
The dumbstruck knight realized that Antonus’ horrific demise had actually taken place in only the blink of an eye. Now, that same power was focused on him.
But he had the one defense that the baron had lost. Holding up the ring, Nermesa declared, “Stop! I command you to stop!”
To his dismay, Set-Anubis merely cackled more. “That fool, he knew how to use the Tear! You do not! You cannot command me, cur!” The hooded villain stretched forth the hand missing fingers. “Now give it back to me!”
That the sorcerer demanded its return—and did not simply take it—immediately caught Nermesa’s attention. Perhaps he could not command Set-Anubis, but neither did he think that his foe could trust that a spell would work upon the soldier. For that matter, any such spell that did might damage or even destroy the very thing that the foul creature sought.
Clutching the ring tight, the Aquilonian replied, “No, I think not.”
A hiss escaped Set-Anubis. “Clever, clever! Against one of your will, you know I dare not risk the Tear! But if you think to escape me thus, think again! It took me long to realize that if I could not strike directly at the baron, then I needed to do so indirectly. By his command, all his men were protected from my work and no worthy vessel for my vengeance could I find! But, in the end, you became that vessel! You brought me the opportunity, however sudden! For that, once I have regained the Tear, I will grant you a swift death . . .”
“You’ll follow me soon after, then,” returned the knight. “They will not take kindly to your having slain their master.”
“Pfah! They heard nothing out there! Besides, they are fools, weak-minded fools! All they need is a baron to give them commands . . . and that I have . . .”
The Eye of Charon burned bright, making all other illumination dull by comparison. Nermesa tried to judge the distance between Set-Anubis and himself. If he rushed the sorcerer—
Then, behind the cackling spellcaster, there was move
ment. It was accompanied by a peculiar, grating sound, as when two rocks rubbed hard against one another.
A tall figure strode up next to Set-Anubis, unblinking eyes staring at the knight.
“Mitra!” gasped Nermesa, backing up a step in amazement and dismay.
Slowly, the familiar smirk spread across the chiseled features. One hand rose high, brandishing the object in it.
Brandishing the marble scepter.
“You see?” mocked Set-Anubis, the Eye blazing triumphantly. “They shall have the baron that they expect to see . . . and through him I will reap the benefits of my former tormentor’s ambitions . . . while you . . . you shall be dead ...”
The statue of Baron Antonus Sibelio moved toward Nermesa . . .
19
“GUARDS! BETAVIO! ENTER!”
Nermesa stared in disbelief as the statue—still facing him—uttered a perfect imitation of the baron’s voice despite having no windpipes. Within the mouth was only solid marble.
And though prior to this the men had been beating futilely at the door, they now sprang through with ease. At their head came Betavio, who glared murderously at the knight.
“This one still lives, my lord? But why?”
“Never mind!” declared the statue. “Seize him!”
This time, Nermesa saw the sorcerer’s lips move ever so slightly. Set-Anubis was providing the voice for his false baron.
The knight considered warning the Gunderman, but saw that Betavio and the others could not tell that what stood before them was only a facsimile of a man, not the true thing. Set-Anubis had not lied.
Betavio signaled four of the men to spread out. With the Gunderman leading, they closed on Nermesa.
The Black Dragon suddenly flipped the sword up, catching it like a spear. With equal swiftness, he threw it at Betavio.
As he expected, the Gunderman twisted to the side, at the same time using his own weapon to deflect the makeshift missile. However, the audacious act caused the oncoming guards to hesitate, giving time for Nermesa to reach his own weapon, which Antonus had earlier dropped.
The king’s blade felt right in his grip, a far better sword than that which he had stolen. If he was to die, he would show them what a loyal soldier of King Conan could do . . .
In his other hand, he still held the Tear of Charon. Nermesa almost cast it way, for all the good the artifact did him now. It kept Set-Anubis at bay, but what good was that when Betavio’s men would simply overwhelm Nermesa?
Yet, as he readied to drop it, Nermesa noticed an intake of breath from the seemingly confident spellcaster. He then recalled what Set-Anubis himself had said about the Tear, how it had been created to unlock the secrets of the Eye. The two were bound to one another; what would happen if the green gem was destroyed?
Could it even be destroyed? Surely the Kushites had tried, tried and failed. Yet . . .
Outside, the horns of the Black Dragons blared again. General Pallantides and his men surely had to be near the gates. All Nermesa needed to do was buy time.
But Betavio seemed to understand that also. He lunged ahead of his men, striking at the cornered knight. Nermesa deflected his blade twice, then shifted away as a second guard sought to catch him in the side. The maneuvering brought Nermesa to exactly where he wanted . . . a window.
He thrust the hand holding the ring out between the bars.
“Wait!” cried Set-Anubis, mouth twisted in outright fear.
The guards ignored him, for he was merely one of their master’s jackals and a hated one at that. Nermesa kicked the table toward Betavio, sending the Gunderman back. The guard who had tried to stab Nermesa earlier attempted another thrust. Bolontes’ son met his sword, coming over the man’s weapon and slitting open his throat.
“Wait!”
This time, the voice sounded like that of the baron. Betavio and the others hesitated.
“How far down is it?” Nermesa demanded, gazing at Set-Anubis. “Far enough to crack a delicate stone?”
The sorcerer trembled with fury, but dared not answer directly. Clearly, he, too, was not certain as to the resilience of the smaller artifact. Through the mouth of his puppet, he managed, “Betavio! Away from him!”
“We have him, my lord Baron,” insisted the Gunderman. “We can hide his body so that the soldiers will never find it! There will be no proof he was ever here!”
“Back, I say!”
Betavio turned to that which he thought his master. He peered at the false Antonus, then at Set-Anubis standing beside the regal figure.
“You heard what he said,” insisted the robed villain. “Step back!”
“Something isn’t right here,” the Gunderman muttered. “You act as too-pleasant company for the baron, sorcerer . . . he never cared for you to be so close.”
“Look hard!” Nermesa called. “Look hard at the baron, Betavio! See what treachery Set-Anubis has set in motion!”
Betavio’s gaze shifted momentarily to the trapped knight.
Scowling, Set-Anubis gestured.
The marble statue swung its scepter at the Gunderman.
Only Betavio’s expert reflexes saved his skull. The lead guard threw himself back out of reach of the animated figure.
“Traitor!” he snarled as he glared up at the spellcaster. Pointing at Set-Anubis, Betavio shouted to the others, “That is not the baron! It is some sort of golem! Seize the sorcerer! Quickly!”
Some of the guards hesitated, while others awkwardly moved to obey.
Muttering under his breath, Set-Anubis sent his puppet against Betavio’s cohorts. One man, clearly still uncertain as to what was going on and slow to react because of it, suffered the fate the Gunderman had escaped. The top of the marble scepter crushed in his head, spilling his life fluids everywhere.
Two other guards, more trusting in Betavio’s word, thrust at the statue, only to have the blades bounce off with loud clangs.
But if the golem presented a fearsome foe to his enemies, it was still not enough to suit the spellcaster. Again he muttered. The Eye of Charon flared—
The two soldiers confronting the statue suddenly eyed their own swords in horror. They dropped the swords, then fled screaming from them. What illusion they had fallen prey to, Nermesa could not say, but both men were white with fear.
Another guard helped Betavio to his feet just as the statue crushed in the head of a second man. The pair that Set-Anubis had caught in his spell continued to quiver in fear in the far corner of the study.
Nermesa had hoped that Betavio and his cohorts would give a better account of themselves, but clearly they were already in dire straits. There was only one thing to do.
Holding his closed fist to his chest, he cried, “Set-Anubis! Would you like the Tear back again?”
As he assumed, the sorcerer lost interest in all else. “Give it to me!” demanded the cadaverous villain. “Give it to me!”
Nermesa raised his fist high over his head. “Here it is, demon! All yours!”
And with that, he thrust his hand out the window as hard as he could, then released the contents.
Set-Anubis howled like a mad wolf. A savage gust of wind tore not at Nermesa, but the window. As the knight ducked, the force of that wind not only ripped open the bars, but a good portion of the surrounding wall as well.
Set-Anubis leapt toward the huge gap and as he did, his shape seemed to blur. While Nermesa could not swear to what he saw, it was almost as if the sorcerer became a winged thing resembling one of the furred howlers of the jungle forests. Without any hesitation, the sorcerer threw himself through the hole he had made—
And vanished into the darkness beyond.
But the wind did not cease blowing, and Nermesa found himself dragged toward the hole. At the same time, he saw the statue of Baron Sibelio swinging wildly in all directions. Without Set-Anubis’ control, it seemed to have no focus. Like a drunken fighter, it crashed into the man next to Betavio.
That was the last that Nermesa saw, for in
the next instant, he was pulled through. Unfortunately, outside, the wind died almost immediately, leaving the knight poised momentarily in midair. Then, the laws of nature took control again, and he started falling.
For once, Nermesa released his sword willingly. With both hands, he grasped for any hold. His fingers wrapped around a thick wooden bar that he realized was a pole holding the banner of House Sibelio.
But barely had he stopped his descent than the pole swayed dangerously. Nermesa heard a groan, then a cracking sound.
The pole split, swinging him down. He slammed against the wall of the estate house. The collision jarred him enough to make him lose what remained of his grip.
To his surprise, however, he fell only a few more feet before landing hard enough to briefly knock him senseless. Nermesa lay there for several seconds, trying to collect himself. He was on a lower balcony, that much he realized. Above, he could still see light emanating from the ruined wall.
Then, something blotted out that light, something that moved.
Something that stepped out of the study and into the air above the knight.
With a monumental effort, the Aquilonian threw himself as far as he could from the spot. Just as he did, a huge form dropped atop where he had been, crashing with enough force to shatter much of the balcony.
Even in the dim illumination of night, Nermesa could see the hand—still wielding the scepter—thrusting up over the pile of rubble that had once been the statue of Baron Antonus Sibelio.
As the clatter of the crash subsided, another sound rose to prominence. The sound of the clash of arms.
The Black Dragons had finally arrived at the Sibelio estate . . . and they were being met with resistance.
Without either the baron or Betavio to tell them what to do, the men at the gates and walls had evidently reacted as most brigands and murderers would have upon seeing an armed host approaching. They assumed that the truth had been discovered and that they now had to flee or fight for their lives. Whatever hope Betavio had kept of maintaining the pretense that all was innocence here—assuming, that was, that he had not been slain by the golem—was lost now.
The Eye of Charon Page 25
