But if Antonus’ men were lost, there still remained a more vile, insidious threat. By no stretch of the imagination did Nermesa believe that he had seen the last of Set-Anubis. At the very least, he would come after Nermesa and, thus, after those for whom the knight cared the most. After the king and queen, General Pallantides, Nermesa’s parents—
After Telaria . . .
“Mitra preserve me,” muttered the knight. Pushing himself up, he looked around. Below him, fires marked shadowy figures caught in the throes of combat. Nowhere, though, did Nermesa see any sign of the sorcerer. Not for a moment did he believe that Set-Anubis had committed suicide when he had leapt out to retrieve the ring. The dark magicks wielded by the renegade would have somehow shielded him.
Then, something else on another balcony directly below caught Nermesa’s attention. A brief gleam reflecting some of the distant fires. Almost it seemed—
Slipping over the edge of the shattered balcony, Nermesa found a handhold that enabled him to climb down farther. The second balcony coalesced as he neared it and for the first time Bolontes’ son could positively identify what lay on it.
His sword.
Dropping the rest of the way, he landed in a crouching position just inches from the weapon. He seized it gratefully in one hand, then stood to survey the scene again.
This low, he could make out the battling figures better—and only then saw that there was something wrong about them. Nermesa leaned on the rail, trying to get a better look at those framed by torchlight.
He saw the armor of the Black Dragons and the liveried forms of House Sibelio’s private army and although both sides fought with vigor . . . they did not always fight with each other. Several of them were swinging at nonexistent foes with some even seeming to take wounds from the latter. Nermesa watched in befuddlement as one Black Dragon kept backing away from nothing, yet acted as if at least three foes assailed him . . .
“Set-Anubis . . .” Nermesa muttered. Whether to cover his escape or for some other foul purpose, the sorcerer had cast an illusion over the area. The dark of night strengthened that illusion, as did the fact that neither group of fighters had expected such a sinister attack.
Cursing, Bolontes’ son searched for a swift way down but found none. Below this balcony, the rest of the way was a sheer drop. With no other recourse, Nermesa kicked open the doors of the room behind him, then went charging through the house.
As he entered the corridor beyond, a woman’s scream broke out from his right. Despite his desire to seek out Set-Anubis, Nermesa could not in all conscience ignore the cry. He dashed down the hallway, breaking through the pair of fine oak doors at the end.
Orena stood before him, the baroness covering her mouth with one hand. She leaned with the other against a chair that had acted in part as meager protection.
Protection, he was startled to see, from Betavio.
The Gunderman stood but a yard from her, his blade bloody. His victim had been one of Nermesa’s own Black Dragons, who now lay sprawled over the chamber’s luxurious carpet. A wound in the back of the knight’s neck spilled its contents onto the floor and stirred anew Nermesa’s rage.
“Betavio!” he shouted.
Both the Gunderman and Orena looked up. Orena let out a small gasp. Betavio, an evil grin on his face, charged the Aquilonian.
“I missed you upstairs,” sneered the bodyguard. “You were a fool not to run when you had the chance!”
“I’ve nothing to fear from a man who can only slay a foe by striking him in the back like a cowardly knave!”
Their blades met, the clash of metal deafening. Betavio had a strong arm, and his initial momentum sent Nermesa back several paces. The knight tried to steer his foe away from the doors so as to give Orena an avenue of escape, but Telaria’s sister stood where she was, seemingly mesmerized by the struggle.
“Your cause is dead, Betavio!” Nermesa growled. “Dead with your master!”
“My cause is very much alive!” snapped the Gunderman. He swung hard at the officer, who ducked back. The Gunderman’s sword instead hacked away part of an ornamental wall fixture.
“Your only chance is to surrender!”
Betavio laughed. “And spend the rest of my life in the Iron Tower?”
The bodyguard’s blade darted past Nermesa’s defense. At the very last, Nermesa used his arm to shove the other’s sword up. It garnered him a long, stinging streak across his elbow, but better that than the point through the side of his throat.
Nermesa’s opponent grinned, certain of his advantage. But while Betavio was an excellent swordsman, the Aquilonian had been quickly gauging the bodyguard’s skills and faults. Nermesa now had a good notion of just what Betavio’s limits were. He started a counterattack, seeing what the other man would do in response. When Betavio reacted just as he had hoped, the Black Dragon knew that he had his adversary where he wanted him.
The sudden turn was not missed by Betavio. His grin faded, to be replaced seconds later by a hint of uncertainty. The sweat on his face increased.
“Surrender, I said!” Nermesa pressed the Gunderman back to a small table, nearly causing Betavio to fall over it. A crystalline vase slipped off, shattering. The sound jarred the already-anxious bodyguard.
“I was a fool to suggest that you be kept alive! I should’ve slain you when first we met in the streets of Tarantia,” snarled Betavio, his swings getting wilder.
“You might have had a better chance, then,” Nermesa agreed. “But not anymore.”
With a guttural cry, Betavio lunged. Nermesa readily deflected his attack, then initiated a series of quickly shifting feints ending in a thrust that buried the tip of his blade deep into Betavio’s sword shoulder. He had hoped that doing so would force the bodyguard to drop his weapon, but the Gunderman stubbornly held on even though he could barely grip the hilt, much less raise the sword.
Then, some movement near Orena caught Betavio’s notice. Out of the corner of his eye, Nermesa saw Morannus, crimson-tipped sword in hand, approaching.
“Stay back, Morannus,” the knight ordered. “I have this one. He’ll need to be interrogated by General Pallantides’ men. There’s much he may be able to tell us—”
Orena’s bodyguard suddenly pointed his sword in the direction of his countryman. “Look out!”
Nermesa reacted with the training of a Black Dragon. Focus immediately returning to Betavio, the knight thrust.
Betavio, his sword midway up, let out a gurgle as Nermesa ran him through. The Gunderman’s eyes went from Nermesa to Morannus—then rolled up.
Crashing into the small table, Betavio dropped to the floor.
Too late did the knight realize that he could have stopped his adversary without slaying him, but Morannus’ warning had caused his reflexes to take over. “I wanted him alive!”
“A thousand pardons, my lord,” Morannus said, his expression grim. “But I’ve seen Betavio’s cunning over these many months and feared he would catch you off guard.”
Nermesa could not fault the other man. Morannus had only sought to protect his life. But with Betavio dead, another danger resurrected itself in the knight’s thoughts. The battle still raged without, and somewhere Set-Anubis had to be plotting. Nermesa was certain that the sorcerer was still within the estate walls.
“Watch your mistress, Morannus,” he commanded the Gunderman. Nermesa headed toward the door. “Keep her here and with the doors shut behind me, understand?”
“Aye, Captain Nermesa, aye.”
Satisfied that Orena would be safe in the bodyguard’s capable care, Nermesa ran from the room. Locating the stairway, he quickly descended to the main floor. Bodies lay strewn about, some of them comrades of his, but most the baron’s men. If not for what he had witnessed from the balcony, Nermesa would have taken heart that the struggle was nearly done.
But with Set-Anubis free, disaster was still as certain as victory.
A pair of Black Dragons suddenly burst into the house, their
backs to the approaching Nermesa. He expected their foes to enter immediately after, but the two knights instead kept swinging at the open space in front of them. The pair looked much beleaguered, as if harried by twice or even three times their number.
Recognizing one of the duo, Nermesa seized him by the arm. “Thunio! Stop! You’re—”
But the other soldier pulled free, crying, “Nermesa! ’Tis you! Be careful, man! You nearly got us both killed—watch out! They’re coming strong!”
And as Nermesa stared, Thunio and the other Black Dragon continued to back away from their imaginary enemies.
Seeing that there was nothing he could do for his comrades, Nermesa raced outside. The courtyard of the Sibelio estate was utter pandemonium, with men of both sides battling real and imagined adversaries. A mist that Bolontes’ son had not noticed from above now enshrouded the area, surely also the foul work of Set-Anubis.
Much to his frustration, however, Nermesa still had no notion as to where the sorcerer was. He surveyed the area and finally, out of desperation, chose the stables as the most likely possibility. The entire illusion seemed designed to place such confusion over those around that surely a single rider could easily slip out unnoticed. Once beyond Sibelio’s gates, the spellcaster would be able to lose himself anywhere he chose—assuming that was even what the knave wanted to do.
The trek to the stables required him to take a serpentine path, for combats of all sizes and shape popped up throughout. Nermesa was nearly run down by a liveried guard on horseback seeking to escape two mounted Black Dragons pursuing him close. A band of Sibelio guards stood in formation against emptiness, their position forcing Nermesa to skirt around them cautiously. Fortunately, they seemed entirely oblivious to the one true foe near them.
Madness! he thought not for the first time. Set-Anubis has truly conjured madness!
The huge wooden doors to the main stables finally beckoned to him. Peering around and seeing no more threat, Nermesa sprinted toward his goal—
And kept sprinting. The doors stayed as far away as ever, no matter how fast he tried to run.
Then . . . then the stables utterly faded into the mists.
Everything faded into the mists.
A harsh cackle floated through the air. Set-Anubis’ triumphant cackle.
“A will so strong, yet is it strong enough?” came the spellcaster’s rasping voice. “What is real and what is illusion, Nermesa Klandes? Do even you know?”
Brandishing his weapon, the knight shouted, “I know that good steel will cut out the black heart of a sorcerer as easily as it would that of a jackal!”
“If the steel can find a true target, yes . . .”
Nermesa spun around. The voice had suddenly appeared to come from right behind him. He slashed at the fog but found no substance, only shadow.
Again, Set-Anubis cackled. “Wonder, do you, why I am still here? I think not. You knew that I would look for you, just as you would look for me . . .”
Now the voice came from the knight’s left. Nermesa jabbed there, with the same lack of results.
“Yes, I thought that you wouldn’t leave without coming after me,” responded the Aquilonian. He reached into his tunic and slipped out what had been kept hidden there. “That is, if you truly still wanted this.”
He held up the ring of Baron Sibelio, the ring containing the Tear of Charon.
The foul gemstone glittered brilliantly even despite a lack of light shining upon it. Aware of its value, especially the fact that he might find need of it later, Nermesa had only pretended to throw it out the window. In his frantic state, Set-Anubis had flown after nothing more than a decoy . . . the baron’s severed finger. The knight had known that if the sorcerer did retrieve the magical emerald, nothing would be able to stop the fiend should he decide to seek revenge against all Aquilonia.
Not that Nermesa’s chances seemed so good even with the Tear still his. As Set-Anubis had so rightly explained earlier, Nermesa did not know how to wield the artifact as Antonus had. For him, its power lay in the simple fact that the spellcaster feared something would happen to it if he tried to attack the knight.
“I cannot permit the Tear to remain in another’s hands,” Set-Anubis went on. “I must make it safe, so that the Eye, in turn, can be safe.”
Nermesa paid the villain’s babbling little mind. Instead, he concentrated his will as hard as he could, seeking to overcome Set-Anubis’ illusion . . . if, indeed, the mists were such. Yet, whether they were real or imagined, the sorcerer had to be somewhere nearby. All Nermesa needed was one chance . . .
“In fact, I have decided that I will further make it safe by taking a kingdom for my own . . . the baron, for all his base desires, suggested the perfect thing . . . slay the king and take the throne . . .”
Nermesa could not help but react to that arrogant statement. “You said as much in the study, when you thought that a statue could play as the baron! That hardly worked, did it, knave?”
“A decision of the moment, one hastily formed.” Again, the voice seemed to come from the side. “I agree, a waste of energy and power, that particular path . . . but still . . . an entire kingdom, aye, there I could keep the Tear safe!”
This time, the sorcerer’s cackle came from in front, but Nermesa did not attack. Instead, he kept a cautious watch for any shadowed form.
Bolontes’ son gritted his teeth. “Even with the Eye of Charon, you’d manage little save your death! Think you that the king is not guarded against the likes of you? If not, ask the shade of Xaltotun of Acheron, if you can . . .”
There was a flash of movement to his right. Nermesa poised. He had to strike true.
“And that is where the baron was the greatest fool!” his foe went on. “His assassins would have probably perished, yes, even with my power to disguise them! I sensed when last I passed the palace the secret enchantments surrounding it. Likely most of them the barbarian king does not even know about . . . but his most trusted general would, would he not? He would recall each and every one, yes?”
Pallantides! Nermesa shook with dread as he began to understand. More than a simple officer such as Nermesa, General Pallantides knew the secrets of Tarantia, especially those involving the king’s sanctum. Moreover, few could gain closer access to King Conan than the commander of his elite guard.
And, because of Nermesa, Pallantides was now within the estate grounds.
Just as he thought that, Nermesa noticed movement again. The vague outline reminded him very much of the shape of the sorcerer, and, this time, Set-Anubis had stepped too close—to gloat at the soldier’s helplessness . . .
Spinning in that direction, Nermesa thrust toward the vaguely seen form. To his relief, he felt the blade sink deep into what had to be the spellcaster’s midsection. With as much strength as he could muster, the fighter shoved the weapon deeper yet. Set-Anubis had to die!
From the mists there came a sudden gasp . . . but the voice uttering it did not sound like the sorcerer’s. The knight leaned closer, trying to make out more clearly his target.
“N-Nermesa?”
The blood drained from him. He shook his head in horror as, even in the dark, he managed to note the thick, long hair and the feminine form.
And the voice he had come to know as well as his own.
Nermesa had just stabbed Telaria . . .
20
“AHAHAHAHAHA . . .” FROM THE mists, Set-Anubis crowed with delight. “Poor Nermesa Klandes! What have you done, eh?”
Telaria should not have been here. She should have been safe back in Tarantia. She had done more than enough simply by escaping Baron Sibelio’s men and then making it to the capital in order to seek help. Why had she then put herself at such risk by coming back?
Had it been because of Nermesa? That was the only reason that made sense to him at that moment. He knew how Telaria felt about him . . . and how he felt about her. They had all but said the words . . .
And now those intense feelings had bro
ught her back to the estate . . . and brought about her monstrous death at his very own hands!
“N-Nermesa . . . I feel . . . feel cold . . .” she whispered. “So very cold . . .”
With fear and disgust at his deed—however accidental it had been—Nermesa gingerly pulled the blade free. The weapon made an awful sucking sound as it came free. Telaria fell limply into his arms. Agony filled her expression, and that further added to his already-insurmountable guilt. He knew that there was nothing he could do to save her, yet he struggled to come up with some solution.
“Ner . . . Nermesa . . .” Her breath was ragged. “Please . . .”
More and more blood soaked the beautiful gown that he had seen her in just hours earlier. Bolontes’ son stiffened as he watched the dark fluids course down the otherwise immaculate dress.
Dropping both the ring and his sword, Nermesa went down on one knee. Sobbing, he muttered over and over, “Telaria . . . no . . . no . . . what have I done . . .”
And as he cried, Set-Anubis materialized out of the mists just a few yards away, like a demon from the underworld.
On the ground, the ring—or rather, the Tear—glowed bright, as if calling to the Eye of Charon. Set-Anubis’ hand slipped into his robes as he stepped within reach. From the garment, the sorcerer pulled free a jagged dagger with runes etched along the edge. It had been forged in darkest Kush and its making had required the souls of three sacrifices to make it strong.
The exposed neck of the knight was an easy target, but the ring lay even nearer. With a silence worthy of a cat, Set-Anubis bent slightly and wrapped his fingers around the ring—
And suddenly Nermesa’s hands covered the Eye of Charon, blotting out the spellcaster’s sight.
The knight had known that he had to time his action perfectly. He had relied on Set-Anubis’ ego and intentions. More than anything, the ring—with the Tear of Charon in it—needed to be the focus of Set-Anubis’ attention. The villain had to believe that Nermesa was no threat whatsoever to him, that the Black Dragon was so caught up in the horror of what he had done that he would notice nothing else.
The Eye of Charon Page 26
