The Eye of Charon

by Richard A. Knaak

  Nermesa struggled up a ridge, leaving in his wake a thick trail of ruined foliage. The upward path slowed his pace, enabling more of the monstrous imps to gain on him. Several grabbed hold of his legs, his torso. Another fell upon his head, wrapping around his helmet and obscuring his vision.

  Unable to see exactly where he was going, the Aquilonian waved his weapon about wildly. With his other, he ripped at the leaves and branches, snapping those he could.

  Then his left foot touched not earth but empty air. He toppled forward, still in the clutches of his inhuman adversaries. Nermesa frantically swung the sword, determined to fight until the end.

  His helmet slipped from his head. A moment later, Nermesa’s skull impacted against something harder than it . . .

  SILENCE REIGNED IN the darkened woods. Along the path carved out by the Aquilonian lay a half-visible scene of devastation. From trees hung ruined, nearly severed branches. Smaller shrubs had been hacked into pieces. Leaves lay scattered everywhere.

  But through the ruined greenery came another form, the shadowy form witnessed by Nermesa. It moved as if gliding along, its long robes trailing well behind it. Yet, despite its voluminous garb, the figure was not hindered by branches snagging the material. It was almost as if what passed through was not mortal.

  The specter followed the route taken by the battling soldier, following it all the way to the top of the high ridge. There, it paused to peer down into the black depths. The ridge off which a blinded Nermesa had stepped ended over a precipice many times the height of a tall Aquilonian. So great was it that, in the night, it was impossible to see the bottom.

  Impossible to see, even with one blazing, sinister red orb.

  The cloaked figure muttered something in a tongue the likes of which Nermesa had never heard. However, there was a foul, triumphant tone to those words that no one could have mistaken . . . if they could still hear them.

  And with that, the specter vanished into the forest.

  4

  NERMESA WAS NOT dead, but in some sense he differed little from a corpse. Through a painful haze, a part of him struggled to rise, to continue to do his duty. It was not merely for him, but for his king, his family, and everyone important to the knight.

  And so, mind still mostly lost, the Black Dragon slowly rose. How much time had passed, Nermesa did not know or care. He knew nothing, save that he had to move on.

  Covered with leaves and other forest refuse, the knight staggered forward. A large welt thrust from the right side of his head, but he was beyond noticing.

  His foot shoved against something that rattled of metal. Nermesa unconsciously reached down for it, grasping his sword like a sleepy child would a favored toy. Then he stumbled on, only knowing that a good soldier did not retreat. Therefore, he went forward, even if forward was not the direction back to the caravan.

  How long his trek lasted was impossible to say. He walked for as long as his battered body and addled mind would allow him, then simply stopped, dropped to his knees . . . and then onto his face again.

  WATER TRICKLED. IT was the first true sound to penetrate the darkness enveloping the Aquilonian. The trickling made Nermesa lick his lips. He felt thirst, overwhelming thirst.

  With the incessant desire for water came the first hints of waking. Other noises slowly registered. The call of a bird. The wind. The distant howl of a wolf or dog. Small animals moving in the background, unconcerned over the armored body lying in their midst. A low, pained moan . . .

  A moan that was his.

  Something crawled over the right side of Nermesa’s face. He shook his head, dislodging it. With bones and muscles that screamed, Bolontes’ son used his hands to push himself up slightly.

  When he found this feat possible, Nermesa attempted a more intricate one . . . that of trying to open his eyes. This required effort a hundredfold to raising himself up, but at last the beaten soldier succeeded.

  He saw immediately that he was still in a wooded area. It was also daytime, although slightly overcast. There appeared no sign of the imps or their demonic summoner. Nermesa felt some vague wonder that he lived, but that wonder was outweighed by the need for water.

  Straining, Nermesa managed a kneeling position. He could not see the water, but he could tell that the source lay somewhere just ahead of him. Nermesa started crawling, then paused when he realized that he did not have his sword.

  At first he saw no sign of it, but then a glitter of green caught his eye. Stretching, he seized the weapon by the pommel and dragged it back.

  A part of him noted that there was no hint of blood or anything akin to it on the blade. A little bit of sap, but nothing else. Yet Nermesa felt certain that he had fought solid enemies, even if they were not human. It had not been his imagination . . . had it?

  Then he thought of Augustus and the one-eyed fiend. Certainly that dread scene had not been any figment of his imagination.

  The memory stirred him on. Clutching the sword in his left hand, he crawled on his knees toward the trickling. A few low shrubs blocked his path, but Nermesa found the strength with which to hack them apart.

  Ahead, a stream beckoned him. Its clear waters bounded over smoothed rocks. The knight pushed himself forward, eager to kiss its pure surface.

  The water was almost as cold as ice. It served not only to satiate Nermesa but to clear much of the haze away.

  Unfortunately, it also brought to light the pain in his head.

  The sudden surge of agony nearly made him sink his face into the stream. Coughing, Nermesa rolled onto his back. Shaking off his right gauntlet, he gingerly touched the wound.

  The lump was nearly the size of an egg and tender to the touch. Cupping some water, Nermesa brought it to his wound. Memories stirred. The sudden lack of footing. His helmet slipping free. His body half-enveloped by the forest creatures raised up by the demon.

  His head striking the ground.

  Nermesa could only imagine that the fall had not been as great as he had thought or that some of the foliage clinging to him had in part protected his body from injury. Those were the only explanations he could think of to explain the miracle of his being alive.

  But they did not explain his present whereabouts. Looking behind him, the Aquilonian saw no sign of any ridge. In fact, instead of a ridge, he saw something far taller jutting out above the tree line.

  A mountain range.

  Its perspective did not match what he recalled from the day before. There were some details that looked vaguely familiar, but they were at the wrong angles and much too close.

  The throbbing grew incessant again. Nermesa located a deeper part of the stream and gingerly dipped his head into it. The cool water soothed him. When he was finished, the Aquilonian found a secure spot nearby and laid back to rest for a moment.

  His supposedly brief respite turned into sleep. It was the sound of an animal in the distance that finally stirred the battered officer again. Ignoring his injuries, Nermesa jolted to a sitting position as he listened.

  The sound repeated. It was not the call of a wolf or some bird, but that of a creature of far more importance to him.

  It was the whinny of a horse.

  Nermesa knew not whether the horse was wild or tame, only that it might be his key to survival. Taking his sword in hand, he forced himself to his feet, then started off in the direction of the call.

  The way proved difficult going, but, driven by his concern for the rest of the caravan and the mission itself, Nermesa pushed on. Several times he had to halt and take a breath, but always he kept his ear open for any further cry.

  And, at last, the weary Aquilonian heard one.

  It was close. So very close that Nermesa nearly called out in response, so relieved was he. The Aquilonian trudged forward, praying that the animal would not run off.

  But as Nermesa wended his way past several trees, he heard other sounds . . . the lowered voices of men.

  His grip on the sword instinctively tightened.

&
nbsp; There were at least three voices, and one of them he found vaguely familiar. Moving cautiously, Nermesa closed on the others’ location.

  His heart nearly stopped when he saw the contingent of riders. At least a dozen and, from their look, hardened fighters. Despite their cloaks, they were surely soldiers, possibly cavalry.

  Their leader was a grim-faced man with a scar across his chin. He kept his helm clutched tight in his cloaked arm, which prevented Nermesa from identifying him.

  There were two other riders across from him. Judging by their positions, they had arrived separately. The conversation was actually a three-sided one, Nermesa realized, but what any of them were saying, he could not make out.

  As the Black Dragon edged nearer, the military officer muttered something to the nearer of the two. Whatever he said provoked an annoyed reaction from that figure, for the latter suddenly gestured ferociously at the soldier. As he did, his face became partially clear.

  Ambassador Zoran . . .

  Sight of the Nemedian filled Nermesa with fury. If Zoran was here, that surely spelled disaster for the rest of the caravan, including those under Nermesa’s command. For all he knew, they were even dead.

  A couple of the horses suddenly snorted. The officer and Zoran both looked in Nermesa’s direction. In turning, the officer revealed part of the armor underneath his travel cloak. Not at all to Nermesa’s surprise, it was Nemedian.

  The other rider also turned in the saddle, and although his face remained obscured by his hood, enough of his garments showed to give the Aquilonian something of a start. The third man wore Corinthian garb.

  The Nemedian officer barked a command, then pointed toward where Nermesa hid. Backing up, the captain turned and ran. Behind him, he heard shouts and the clatter of hooves.

  Although his body protested, Nermesa ran. To stay would be to invite certain death or, worse, torture. The Nemedians would love nothing better than to take an officer of the Black Dragons and try to peel from him his secrets.

  Crashing sounds arose from the position he had abandoned. Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted at least four men on horseback giving chase. Nermesa had the momentary advantage of the thick woods, but ahead lay areas where the riders would surely catch up.

  One man did not even need that long. The Aquilonian suddenly felt hot breath on his neck and heard the thick snort of a horse in his ear. Nermesa threw himself aside just in time to avoid being scalped by a sword.

  The Nemedian fought to turn his steed around, the woods giving the mounted soldier much interference. Leaping to his feet, Nermesa charged into his opponent. The rider tried to parry his attack, but Nermesa cut low. His blade severed the saddle strap.

  As the saddle slid, the soldier tumbled off. Nermesa slapped the animal on the flank and as it rushed past, he lunged at the fallen Nemedian. His blade caught the soldier through the throat.

  Too late, Nermesa realized that he had lost a chance to have a horse of his own. He turned and ran even as two of the other riders neared. More soldiers could be heard farther back.

  Nermesa leapt down a small ravine, his feet landing in water that he had to assume was from the same stream he had earlier used. The splash echoed in the woods.

  Above him, one rider reined his horse to a halt. He could not see Nermesa—who was planted below him against the side of the ravine—but clearly suspected that his quarry had not moved on. The Aquilonian caught glimpses of the hunter above through outstretched roots from trees atop the ravine. The Nemedian’s animal paced back and forth as his master peered down, seeking some sign of Nermesa.

  A second rider suddenly arrived. He muttered something to the first, and the pair started off to the west.

  Momentarily safe, Nermesa quickly crossed the stream and headed farther away from where he had seen Zoran and the others. Piecing together his view of the mountains with the uniforms of the soldiers, he believed that he was in Nemedia—but how, then, did the Corinthian fit in? Was he a spy in the service of Nemedia? That seemed the most obvious choice, but for some reason the captain was not satisfied.

  Keeping an eye out for soldiers, Nermesa climbed up a ridge. Somehow, he had to find a way out of this place and return to Tarantia. Whatever his original mission, the king and General Pallantides would be very much interested in the Nemedians’ activities, especially where Ambassador Zoran and the mysterious Corinthian were concerned. After what had likely happened to the caravan, Nemedia’s link to the other lost wagons appeared very strong.

  Hoofbeats warned him of imminent danger. Nermesa threw himself to the ground, flattening out as best he could so as not to be seen.

  However, the lone rider who raced past was not one of the soldiers, but rather the faceless Corinthian. He sped along a woodland trail as if pursued by a thousand Pict warriors.

  Barely had the Corinthian vanished from sight when another horse appeared. This one ran at a much less brisk pace and as Nermesa dared look up, he saw that it was the animal whose saddle he had cut.

  Risking discovery, the Aquilonian leapt up in front of the riderless horse. The animal shied, kicking at him. The hooves came within inches of his chest, and Nermesa had no illusions as to the breastplate’s ability to protect its wearer from damage should those hooves have hit.

  Using his long experience with horses, Nermesa managed to calm the beast down. The saddle still hung precariously from the animal, but was clearly of no use. Nermesa quickly removed it. He disliked riding any horse bareback, especially in armor. It served neither him nor the poor creature well, but he had no choice.

  The horse protested as he climbed up, but quieted once Nermesa was completely mounted. Prodding the animal in the sides, the Aquilonian quickly departed the area. He was still too near the meeting place for his tastes.

  One part of him desired to turn west and head back to Tarantia, but another was curious about the sinister Corinthian. Following his instincts—and the fact that if he headed in the other direction he would likely run into the Nemedians—Nermesa headed along the other rider’s trail as fast as he dared let the horse run.

  There was a possibility that the Corinthian had turned off elsewhere, but Nermesa saw no sign and so kept to the beaten path. By the location of the sun, he estimated the route to be winding southeast, which made sense. How far he was from the border, though, Nermesa had no way of knowing.

  A freshly tossed pile of earth was the first hint that his quarry was indeed ahead. Encouraged, Nermesa urged the horse faster.

  Then, something made him suddenly glance back . . . just in time to see the other two soldiers catching up. The Nemedians grinned, like wolves certain of their kill. They beat the flanks of their horses with the flats of their blades in order to force the animals to run faster. The gap between the Aquilonian and the pair rapidly shrank.

  As they neared, the soldiers split up, coming at Nermesa from two sides. Rather than be caught between them, the captain pulled the reins hard. With his free arm, Nermesa clung on for dear life as the animal came to a sudden stop.

  Startled by his audacity, one of the riders kept going for several paces. The other managed to slow, but not as quickly as the Black Dragon had. It put him a few feet ahead of Nermesa and gave the Aquilonian the opening for which he had hoped.

  He lashed the soldier in the arm, then, as the latter sought to turn, cut into his sword hand. With a yelp, the Nemedian dropped his weapon.

  Nermesa had hoped that the man would retreat, but instead, the soldier reached for a dagger. The captain had no choice but to gut his foe before the second soldier returned. As it was, Nermesa barely succeeded in pulling his blade free before he had to defend himself from a furious assault by the surviving Nemedian. The clang of their blades resounded in the woods, worrying Nermesa that other soldiers would come in response to the racket. Yet, try as he might, he could not break the soldier’s defense.

  “Aquilonian spy!” snapped the bearded Nemedian. “Surrender and my commander may still grant you some mercy!”
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  “I am no spy!” retorted the Black Dragon, although his mission did bring him close to being one. “Nor am I a brigand like you, plundering innocent caravans and slaying all in them!”

  “Dog! We do no such thing!”

  Perhaps this soldier believed that, but that did not change matters. Nermesa had to finish the fight and finish it fast.

  Without warning, he slid off the opposite side of his horse. Lacking a saddle, the action proved a swift one that took his adversary off guard. Cursing, the Nemedian tried to kick the riderless mount away.

  As he did, Nermesa came around and seized his outstretched leg. He threw the soldier off the back of the horse.

  The Nemedian struck the ground headfirst. Nermesa stood over him, expecting to do battle, but his foe simply lay where he had fallen. After carefully prodding the body with the tip of his sword and finding no trickery, the Black Dragon knelt closer. Turning the head to the side, Nermesa surmised that the soldier had broken his neck in the fall. The death was a reminder to Nermesa how fortunate he had been to survive his own, much greater fall with so little injury.

  Rising, the Aquilonian seized the dead man’s horse by the reins and leapt up. He peered around, but saw no further signs of pursuit. Nermesa again contemplated riding toward his homeland but felt certain that the truth about what was happening could best be unveiled by following the Corinthian.

  The general trail was not hard to pick up again. Although he had ridden hard, the Corinthian clearly did not travel like a man fearful of being followed. That gave Nermesa hope; the other’s ignorance would surely work to his advantage.

  But although Bolontes’ son urged his new mount on to great speed, after more than an hour, he saw no sign that he was gaining on the Corinthian. Worse, his head had started to ache, and the rumble in his stomach warned him that he had to find sustenance soon. Slowing his steed, Nermesa checked the saddlebags, but was rewarded with only a small handful of dried fruit. This he devoured with no sense of alleviating his hunger.