Only . . . Nermesa had known almost immediately that he had not actually slain Telaria.
It had been her gown that had given the matter away. From everything that he had gathered from Antonus, Telaria had risked herself much to escape on her own after her sister had refused to believe the truth about the baron. If even part of what the treacherous noble had said had actually happened—and Antonus’ relaxed attitude until the Black Dragons’ horns had sounded had indicated that he at least had believed so—than surely Telaria’s gown would have been reduced to rags. Just as important, even if they had somehow miraculously survived unmarred, they would have made for an ungainly ride either away from or back toward the estate. Nermesa knew Telaria well enough to understand that she would have seen the wisdom of at least changing to more appropriate and less risky attire after she had finally reached the palace and relayed his warning.
No . . . something had been amiss here . . . and Nermesa had quickly understood just what. Set-Anubis had once more sought to break his will, this time nearly succeeding through the most heinous of illusions.
And as Nermesa had thought this, “Telaria” had faded away without warning. Despite already being aware of the fact that she had not been real, the knight had breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing the irrefutable evidence of that.
But the knight had not let on that he was no longer enmeshed in the illusion. Rather, he had thrown himself into the act, letting out with abandon emotions he was certain would convince Set-Anubis of his triumph.
And it had worked. Trained to be wary of an enemy’s approach, Nermesa had sensed the stealthy steps of the sorcerer. He had purposely dropped the ring far enough away so that it would shine like a beacon for the fiend, and Set-Anubis had taken to it like a moth at a flame.
Unfortunately, Nermesa had also had to drop his sword, and he had been aware that the time needed to seize it again and bring it up would not be available to him. Set-Anubis would surely strike him down first, either through the arts or through some blade of his own. Nermesa had to rely on his hands, but even those had a good chance of proving insufficient to the task. If he jumped the spellcaster or tried to throttle him, Set-Anubis would again surely have the wherewithal to cast a spell.
It was magic that Nermesa most feared against him, and so it had occurred to the Aquilonian that his one chance to save himself and disable his opponent had been to take the Eye of Charon just as Set-Anubis finally regained the Tear.
Thus it was that when the sorcerer picked up the ring, Bolontes’ son threw himself toward the villain, both hands outstretched to seize the crimson jewel and tear it free.
As his fingers wrapped around the edges, however, an incredible heat seared them. Nermesa’s first instinct was to release the Eye, but his mind overruled that, the image of a dead Telaria emphasizing what would happen if the knight failed.
Nermesa tore at the Eye of Charon, tore at the bindings that he now discovered Set-Anubis had sewn into his skin just as his enemies had sewn shut his eyelids. He ignored the burning, ignored the agony. Although on some level Nermesa knew that all he felt happened within only a second or two, it felt as if it were an eternity.
Then, with a horrid ripping of flesh . . . Nermesa pulled the Eye free.
He expected Set-Anubis to curse, to claw or stab at him, even to unleash any of a number of darksome spells.
Nermesa did not expect the spellcaster to scream so horribly that it sent shivers to the knight’s very soul.
A tremendous force flung Nermesa away from his foe. With a bone-jarring thud, he landed on his back, the artifact still held tight in one hand. Oddly, it now felt much cooler, but, at the moment, that was a minor consideration in comparison to the scene before him.
Flinging aside his dagger, Set-Anubis clutched at his face where the Eye had once been. Blood trickled through his fingers from the ruined bindings. More monstrous, though, was the horrible mark that the dark red stone had left in its wake. There, Nermesa saw a small, crumbling layer of rotting skin perfectly shaped like the silhouette of the jewel. Beneath it could be seen hints of something white, which the knight could only believe had to be part of the sorcerer’s very skull.
Although Set-Anubis continued to scream, he suddenly took a step toward Nermesa.
“Give . . . me . . . that . . . back!” he rasped in a voice no longer human. “Give it . . . to me!”
Scrambling for his sword, Nermesa edged away from the almost-demonic figure. The closer he approached, the less like any creature born of the mortal world Set-Anubis became.
Nermesa had heard that sorcerers often paid a price for tremendous power, and Set-Anubis had done just that. Either because of his long tie to the Eye or by some other spell, he had come to the point where he utterly depended upon it. How long had it been since first he had bound it to him? A decade? Two? A century or more, even? There had been tales of spellcasters who had used the arts to live for several times the life span of most men.
If so, then now, bereft of the Eye, Set-Anubis’ long-held-back mortality was swiftly catching up with him.
A wind picked up, a wind that seemed to focus only upon the sorcerer. In the light of the Eye of Charon, Nermesa watched as it swirled around Set-Anubis, spinning faster and faster. His robes wrapped around him like a maddened kraken, so much so that he could no longer move. Yet still the wind’s fury increased.
Dust began to fly about the sorcerer, and only after a moment did Nermesa realize that it was coming from the villain. More and more it gathered, until some of it began piling around the hapless figure.
As it gathered, Set-Anubis seemed to shrivel within himself. He grew smaller, more of a jumble of cloth and bones.
And, finally, both the sorcerer and his garments crumbled before Nermesa’s astounded eyes. Set-Anubis let out a gargled sound that might have been a curse—and his body collapsed. A mound of much-decayed cloth briefly stood before the knight until it was quickly eaten away by the incessant wind.
Seconds later, there remained nothing but a thinning pile of dust. Only then did the wind cease.
Only then did Nermesa truly believe that Set-Anubis was indeed dead.
A faint glitter from the dust caught his attention. With much trepidation, Nermesa rose and went over to it. With the tip of his blade, he dug out the source.
Antonus Sibelio’s ring. The Tear glowed with an intensity equal to that of the Eye. Nermesa picked up the ring.
A sense of great power coursed through him, almost leaving the knight giddy. He had a great urge to press the Eye of Charon to his heart and put the ring bearing the Tear on his hand . . .
“Mitra!” Nermesa dropped both the ring and the Eye. With utter revulsion, he brought one boot up and stomped on the former. The ring itself cracked, but when he lifted his foot, it was to discover that the gem within was still intact.
He peered around. His gaze alighted on the Eye and desperate hope arose. The knight forced himself to seize the sinister orb again. Ignoring as best he could the rush of power he felt when touching it, Nermesa raised the artifact high . . . then brought it crashing down on the smaller emerald.
This time, the Tear shattered with a very satisfactory crack. A brief flare of green energy escaped the small jewel as it broke into several pieces . . . then the light faded and the Tear became just so much more rubble.
But as Nermesa raised the Eye of Charon, with the intention of seeing if he could smash it somehow, he suddenly noticed another murky form stepping out of the mists. With his ready sword in one hand and the Eye forgotten in the other, Nermesa watched as it gradually coalesced into a tall figure with a slight limp. A figure very familiar to him.
“General Pallantides?” The knight exhaled in relief.
“Nermesa?” The shadowed form of the Black Dragons’ commander looked the captain up and down. Pallantides’ voice had a slow measure to it, as if he were half-asleep. “Nermesa? No . . . it cannot be. ’Tis . . . another trick . . . another trick of this foul fog . . .�
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And with that, the general swung at Nermesa.
Their swords rang hard as they struck one another, even a slight spark arising between them. Yet, despite this proof of substance, Pallantides did not appear to believe Nermesa real. Either that, or he suspected that some minion of the late baron stood hidden behind the illusion of his trusted officer.
Even Nermesa still had his doubts as to the reality of what was going on. Perhaps General Pallantides did not stand before him. Perhaps the general was on the other side of the estate. This could very well be some liveried guard or even just empty air.
Whatever the case, Nermesa had no recourse but to fight and fight against a man who—if it was indeed Pallantides—was surely far his superior in skill. Along with a handful of renowned fighters such as Sir Prospero of Poitain, Pallantides was considered one of the best swordsmen in all of Aquilonia. The veterans who had instructed Nermesa had all been trained at one point or another by the legendary general, and they had willingly admitted that they could never achieve his abilities.
Which left Nermesa in dire straits. Either he had to hope to become lucky and defeat his commander without slaying him, or Pallantides would run him through.
Unfortunately, the odds were far more likely that it would be the latter possibility.
The general’s long blade weighed heavily on Nermesa’s sword each time the weapons connected. Despite the general’s limp, he seemed to move with a litheness unmatchable by his opponent. He pressed Nermesa again and again, his shadowy expression ever determined.
Nermesa had to do something. He had to draw Pallantides’ focus, and only one way sprang to mind.
Nermesa held up the Eye of Charon. The bloodred glow from the artifact could not be ignored.
“Eh?” General Pallantides hesitated in midswing as his gaze shifted to the crimson gem. His face outlined by the unsettling red aura, the commander blinked. His eyes slowly grew more focused.
He finally seemed to see the man before him. “Captain Nermesa? It is you, is it not?”
“Yes, General! Praise Mitra that you are free of the sorcerer’s illusion!”
“Illusion . . .” Pallantides shook his head as if still clearing it. “When the mists settled so quickly upon us, I sensed evil magic afoot . . . but still it was impossible to entirely ignore what I saw. Worse, everyone around me acted as if utterly insane! Men fought men, but shadows as well, and one could almost feel sympathy for the enemy, for they were just as ensorcelled.”
“It was the work of a sorcerer called Set-Anubis . . .”
“Set-Anubis! When Telaria came and told me what happened, the name sent chills down my spine, for tales of him have reached my agents before!” The veteran commander looked about. “Where is the miscreant hiding? We must not let him escape—”
“Set-Anubis is dead, sir.” Nermesa went into an abbreviated version of what had happened. Despite trimming the details as much as possible, he still left Pallantides marveling at him.
“Strong of sword and mind! Aye, that’s you, young Klandes! So the arrogance of the cur brings him to a horrific-yet-appropriate end, I say! And what of the Baron Sibelio?”
“Dead also, but by the spellcaster’s hand, not mine. The baron treated him as a slave and when finally given the opportunity, Set-Anubis paid him in full for the insult.”
“And the baroness?”
“She should be well. She was not a part of this. I left her in her chambers, guarded by good Morannus.” Mention of Orena allowed the knight to turn the matters to a subject more pressing to him. “General, you spoke of Telaria—how—how is she?”
“For a woman who leapt into a river to escape the miscreants—in doing so making them believe that she was dead—then stole a horse from a neighboring estate and still managed to reach the capital as if carried by the wind itself, she is doing excellently. Admittedly, she was not suitably attired anymore for a lady-in-waiting to the queen, but Zenobia quickly forgave her.”
Relief rushed through Nermesa as he listened. He marveled at what Telaria had gone through because of him . . . marveled and again felt much guilt for. Still, one question needed to be answered for him. “She did not . . . she did not ride with you, did she?”
Pallantides laughed. “It took the queen to keep her from coming, but, no, she did not ride with us. She awaits the news of what happened here back at the palace.”
“Praise be!”
“And as for that news, if it is to be what we desire, Captain, then it would be good for us to see that the rest of these traitors are rounded up!”
“Yes, sir—but what of this?” Nermesa held up the Eye of Charon. It still glowed, but now just barely. It seemed to the knight that its power had begun to gradually fade—or withdraw—since the destruction of the Tear.
His superior took the sinister artifact, studying it for a moment. “What would you do with it, Nermesa?”
“Destroy it,” Bolontes’ son responded without hesitation. “Failing that, bury it where it could never be found. Even without that which can open its secrets, it is still a devilish thing.”
“The fire within has almost gone. The Eye appears to be going dormant,” Pallantides analytically remarked. “I wonder ...”
As hard as he could, the general threw the Eye of Charon to the stone path.
The monstrous gem cracked into a thousand pieces as easily as the most fragile glass. Both men involuntarily stepped back, expecting far more.
But that was all. There was no explosion, no release of energy.
Once his nerve had returned, Nermesa shook his head in wonder. “When I used it to destroy the other, there was not even the slightest marring. How—?”
“One learns a few things about sorcery and arcane items when fighting alongside the king, trust me. The tales he could tell! Whatever force it contained, it either withdrew deeply into the stone or returned to the netherworld once the key—the Tear—was destroyed.” Pallantides chuckled. “I was fairly certain that nothing dire would happen . . .”
Nermesa suddenly noticed that the mists had begun to dissipate. Without the Eye of Charon, the spell creating them could not hold. One by one, the stars reemerged overhead, joined belatedly by a half-moon.
Shouts of confusion swept across the estate.
“The illusions are no more,” Nermesa realized.
“Then we must make haste! Come!”
Once again, Pallantides proved that, limp or no limp, he could move as well as any fighter. It was all Nermesa could do just to keep up with him. They rushed toward the thickest of the battle, swords at the ready.
But although many of the baron’s men yet fought, they did not do so with much heart. It quickly became clear to them that their master was dead and that those who would have commanded in his name had either abandoned them or were likewise slain. A few of Betavio’s cohorts attempted to make a stand, but they were no match for the numbers of the Black Dragons.
Only half an hour later, the estate was under the iron control of the king’s elite, one of whom greeted Nermesa as a long-lost brother.
“Lo and behold!” Paulo cried upon seeing him. The blond knight came over to Nermesa and gave him a bear hug. “Thought you dead so long, I did! Returned but two nights previous and hoped to speak with your parents tomorrow, to console them! Then, when the news came to Tarantia, I almost couldn’t believe it, not at all!”
“I’ve had some trouble believing it myself at times,” returned Nermesa. Grinning, he shook his comrade’s hand. “It’s good to see you!”
“There’ll be time for celebrations later,” barked General Pallantides. “Sir Paulo! Get these ruffians lined up and ready to move! They’ve got a long walk to the Iron Tower—what’s that?”
“That” to which the commander referred, was a sudden, intense blaze bursting out of the uppermost story of the estate house. Nermesa took a step forward, gauging where the fire burned.
“The baron’s study!” he shouted. “General! I’m certain that
he had information there concerning his misdeeds and with whom he was allied! Someone seeks to destroy it all!”
“You know the way? Then take some men and get in there! See what you can do! Go!”
With ten crack Black Dragons behind him, Nermesa ran back to the house. However, as he reached the entrance, he feared that it was already too late. The fire now came from other windows on that floor as well.
Two figures rushed out the doors as he tried to enter. He raised his sword, only to see that it was Orena and Morannus.
“The ceiling grew black and started to buckle!” shouted the Gunderman. “We ran into the hall! I saw two knaves in the baron’s livery slipping out the side!”
Nermesa sent four of his men in the direction indicated. As he and the rest started in, Orena suddenly took his arm.
“Telaria . . . is she safe?”
“Yes. She’s back in the palace.”
The baroness nodded, only then permitting Morannus to lead her away. Nermesa eyed the blond woman’s retreating form for a second, having expected more concern than that . . . but Orena was ever Orena.
Then a flash of flames from above stirred him to his duty again. He led the rest of his band into the house and up the staircase.
But at the third landing, they were met by a fearsome wall of fire. Ahead, Nermesa could see that part of the ceiling had already caved in. Blackened furniture from rooms above lay strewn over part of the corridor.
“Too late!” he called. “Back down!”
Even as he spoke, there was a terrible groan from above. The other Black Dragons managed to retreat down to the next floor, but as Nermesa followed, what was left of the ceiling came crashing down.
He threw himself over the railing. His sword tumbled to the bottom floor, but Nermesa caught part of the staircase just below him.
One of the other knights rushed up and lent Nermesa a hand in climbing onto the steps. Rushing down to the main level, Bolontes’ son quickly seized his weapon and hurried out of the building.
The Eye of Charon Page 27
