The Eye of Charon

by Richard A. Knaak

Unwilling to argue, Nermesa pulled out a coin for the ale, then what Marya had earlier told him the room with her would cost.

  Arno tapped the last amount three times. “I like to take my time with my pleasures.”

  “The rest when you tell me something worthwhile.”

  “Done.” The expatriate Aquilonian leaned close. “There’s been things I heard, from different ends. Many a caravan taken and coming from many lands. Corinthian, Ophirian, Nemedian, Aquilonian—”

  Nermesa frowned. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “You’re looking for a Corinthian,” Arno said with a malicious grin, “who be not a Corinthian.”

  The Black Dragon was suddenly alert. “What do you mean?”

  The man across him tapped the coins again. With frustration, Nermesa added one of those Arno had demanded. “No more until I hear more.”

  “A Corinthian who is not a Corinthian. Nor is he Aquilonian, Nemedian—”

  “Spare me the list!” the knight hissed. “If not those, then what is he?”

  But Arno leaned back and took a drink from his ale. “I can tell you something worth all the money still owed and more, but only if it’s all on the table.”

  “Very well, but it stays in the center until I believe your information worth this game!”

  The bearded informer licked his lips as he watched Nermesa count out the rest. His eyes pored over the coins as if they were Marya’s hips.

  “Well?” demanded Nermesa.

  One fat hand started to reach for the coins, but the officer planted his own gauntleted one over the payment.

  Shrugging, Arno drank some more. At that point, the servingwoman returned. She not only brought Arno his new ale, but, with a giggle, whispered something in his ear. The former Aquilonian seized her head with his free hand and kissed her soundly before sending her away.

  It was all too much for Nermesa. “I grow tired of this waiting game, Arno . . .”

  “As do I suddenly, boy,” returned his companion, still eyeing Marya’s retreating backside. “Something’s come up,” he added with a chuckle.

  “Arno—”

  The beady eyes met his. “One thing I’ve got to tell you that’ll make this worth your while. In a booth near the back door, sits two men. One of them is yours.”

  Only Arno’s surprisingly swift grabbing of Nermesa’s wrist prevented the knight from leaping to his feet. Bolontes’ son took a deep breath to calm himself, then surreptitiously glanced toward the table in question.

  And although he could not quite make out the face of the man who sat with his back toward them, he saw enough to indeed recognize him for the rider meeting with Zoran. The garments were a perfect match, and dust from the road still coated the cloak. True, some would have still argued that Nermesa was taking much on faith, but something within told him that he had found his quarry.

  “I’ll be taking this now,” murmured Arno, sliding his hand from Nermesa’s to the money. Looking past the knight, he grinned. “Must be going now.”

  With both his ale and ill-gotten funds gathered, the informer rose from his seat. Nermesa had no doubt that he headed for Marya, who now had the captain’s sympathy.

  Forgetting Arno’s lusts, Nermesa glanced again at the other two men. The other figure was also clad in Corinthian garb, but the knight had no interest in him. He had the look of a subordinate and, in fact, whatever Nermesa’s quarry had just whispered to him filled the man with fear. The frightened Teban nodded, swallowed the last of his ale, and quickly left the table.

  The man Nermesa sought rose a minute later. Even then, his face remained mostly in shadow. There was hint of a chin, some dark hair, but little more. He did not head for the front door, as his companion had done, but rather for the back.

  His own drink long paid for, Nermesa abandoned his own table and started after. Now he felt grateful for the cloak that Antonus’ man had insisted upon. It had protected him from identification by the mysterious rider while in the tavern and now shrouded his identity as he pursued the man out.

  Hoping that the baron’s horse would still be out front when he returned, Nermesa cautiously stepped through the back exit. The door there led to a wide alley where even less savory businesses sought an honest or, more likely, dishonest living. Several yards ahead, the would-be Corinthian silently hurried down an ever-darkening path.

  Aware that he might be walking into a trap, Nermesa kept his hand ready at his sword. His eyes darted back and forth as he sought any figure in the shadows who might be a possible attacker.

  The “Corinthian” did not seem to be heading for any horse, as Nermesa had initially feared. Instead, he climbed down a set of cracked stone steps, entering an even dingier part of the Waste than the captain had thus far seen. Nermesa waited a moment before descending, to make certain that he did not cause any suspicions on the part of his quarry.

  He had not seen another soul for the past few minutes, which bothered him. Again concerned about a trap, he carefully drew his sword.

  Ahead, the shadowy form of the false Corinthian hesitated at what Nermesa finally recognized as a doorway. The knight barely had time to duck out of sight as the other glanced his way. Seemingly satisfied that no one observed him, the mysterious figure lightly tapped three times on the door before planting his ear against it. Evidently hearing something inside that satisfied him, he slipped in.

  Nermesa counted to twenty, then hurried to the door. He tried the handle and found to his relief that it turned.

  A terrible stench greeted him as he entered. So caught up was Nermesa by the odor that he failed to notice the rail suddenly in his way. He fell forward, nearly tumbling over.

  At the last moment, Nermesa righted himself, but not before his armor and his sword clattered loud and hard against the metal rail. The Aquilonian immediately froze.

  He heard nothing. Silently cursing his clumsiness, Nermesa felt along the rail, discovering it led to a set of steps heading down. As his eyes adjusted as much as they could to the darkened area, he noted something below him glitter ever so slightly.

  Water. Nermesa finally recognized the stench for what it was. He had entered the sewers of Tebes.

  Common sense told him to turn back, that he could not possibly find his quarry down here. It was very likely that the man he hunted had heard the racket and either hurried off or lay in wait for his pursuer.

  Regardless of those suspicions, Nermesa started down the steps. This was the only opportunity he had thus far had to uncover the truth concerning the caravan attacks.

  At the bottom, the knight listened to the sluggish flow of water as he decided which direction to turn. However, his choice was suddenly made for him by a brief scraping sound coming from his left. Gripping the blade tightly, Nermesa moved on.

  The way was not always simple. Webs constantly befouled his face, and rats insolently darted over his boots rather than making way for him. Nermesa wondered if anyone other than he and the false Corinthian had been down here since the sewers had first been built. Several places seemed filled with rotting refuse, and once Nermesa imagined a form in the water that might have been a body long decomposing.

  Deeper and deeper into the system he pursued his invisible adversary. If not for another momentary scraping sound from up ahead, Nermesa might have thought that his prey had gone in some other direction. Still, he questioned where the man’s ultimate destination lay.

  Next to him, the water bubbled. It had a habit of doing that, Nermesa knew, likely from air trapped by rotting vegetation and other matter deep under the surface. Nermesa had no idea just how deep the canal was, and the thought of falling in while dressed in armor was a daunting one. Fortunately, the side walkways were wide enough that he had not had to worry much so far. On occasion, there had been places where the footing had been questionable, but not enough to make him fear. Still, throughout the journey, he had clung as near to the wall as possible.

  A particularly large bubble burst just next to him,
making the knight pause. When he looked up again, Nermesa suddenly realized that he could finally make out the cloaked figure. The other man had paused near a set of steps leading up. Now his plan was clear; the new steps would take him to a place in a completely different part of Tebes, a clever move if he wished to avoid notice by anyone who might know his true identity.

  Nermesa waited for the man to start up, but the figure did not move. After much waiting, the Aquilonian grew suspicious. He started toward the shadowed form.

  When it continued to remain where it was, Nermesa picked up his pace. He all but ignored silence now, certain that he had guessed right about why the man stood where he was.

  When he was about two yards away, the Black Dragon called out, “Turn around! Turn around and face me, but keep your hands from your weapons!”

  When the figure continued to keep his back to the Aquilonian, Nermesa lunged forward and tore at the cloak.

  The hood of the cloak ripped as it tore free from a piece of metal sticking out of the rail of the staircase. Nermesa stumbled back a step, cursing. He had been tricked, just as he had all along feared.

  From the sewers came a short, harsh laugh, then something in a tongue so foreign to him that it sounded like gibberish. An unearthly red glow emanated from behind the knight.

  Nermesa spun—and found himself facing the demon of the single, crimson eye.

  The cloaked and hooded form stood on the other side of the canal, its twisted hands raised toward the knight. Again came the unsettling, unintelligible words . . .

  Nermesa tossed aside the cloak and looked for some place by which he could quickly cross to the opposite side.

  The water near him bubbled.

  A wave suddenly swept over his legs. Nermesa slipped—

  And, armor and all, he fell into the canal, sinking like a stone.

  7

  THE FLAILING KNIGHT barely managed a gasp of air before he slipped underwater. His armor—especially the breastplate—weighed him down, sending him into utter darkness. Nermesa kept praying that he would hit bottom quickly, but the canal seemed impossibly deep. Even standing with his arms outstretched above him, he knew that he would not have touched the surface.

  When he did land, it was atop a soft, congealing mass whose origins he tried not to think about. Already his lungs strained for air. Nermesa grabbed at his breastplate, trying to remove it but failing.

  With the knowledge of swiftly impending doom, the Aquilonian pushed toward what he hoped was the side of the canal. If he could lift himself up—

  Something long, thick, and pale even in the dark waters shoved into him. The force of its collision was such that Nermesa was lifted like a small piece of rotting wood.

  His head broke the surface. Grabbing blindly, Nermesa gasped for air, trying to suck in as much as his lungs could hold.

  He went under again just as what seemed a tail as thick as his arm brushed past his side. Nermesa slashed at the water with his sword, but to no avail.

  Aware that whatever had run into him would no doubt return very soon, the Black Dragon again sought for the side of the canal. This he finally found, but the wall proved too smooth to offer him any purchase.

  His lungs again struggled for air. Nermesa shoved himself against the stone, kicking upward with his feet and fighting the deathly weight of the armor.

  His head popped up over the surface . . . but he was unable to completely fill his lungs again before sinking.

  And, at that moment, something monstrous snapped at his face.

  Nermesa nearly exhaled his remaining air. He had a vision of a stretched skull with wild, inch-long teeth and white orbs without pupils. Had he not reacted instinctively, it might have torn off the flesh, but instead the long, broad maw missed by inches.

  The Aquilonian battered at the lower jaw with his gauntleted hand. The blow was not strong, but it evidently surprised the creature, who immediately turned away.

  But as it turned, what Nermesa took for a vestigial paw the size of his head shoved the knight off-balance. He tipped back.

  Certain of his death now, Nermesa nonetheless reached out desperately for some salvation. His fingers caught hold of something that felt like a handle. He tugged on it, managing to maneuver himself toward the opposite side of the canal. With his last breath, he threw himself against what he hoped was the wall—

  But, instead of solid stone, Nermesa felt a gaping hole. He tried to pull back from it, but a sudden rush of current sent him forward instead.

  Visions of his family flashed through his weakening mind. He saw again the king honoring him, and Pallantides handing him the sword that somehow Nermesa clung to yet.

  Then, as consciousness started to fade, Nermesa suddenly tumbled through into another canal. His outflung arm found air, and his body collided with what seemed a pile of rubble. However, as he sought some handhold, the current pulled at him, trying to drag the Aquilonian to what his drifting feet informed him was a much deeper section.

  Somewhere, he found the strength to pull himself up until his mouth was once again above water. Unable for the moment to do more, Nermesa clung to the broken stone as best he could.

  When his breathing normalized, the bedraggled knight blinked, in the hopes of making out something of his surroundings. Faint shapes formed around him, ones that did not bring to mind a place such as he had just left. This was something other than a sewer, although clearly at some point the barrier between them had given way.

  The water nearby bubbled.

  Gritting his teeth, Nermesa scrambled up the ruined area like a ragged spider. His free hand grabbed hold of a long piece of stone—

  No. Not stone . . . bone.

  He dropped it immediately, but in seeking some new purchase for his hand, his fingers grazed more of what had to be the remains of a large creature. A few seconds’ more of desperate groping enabled him to discover just what that creature was.

  A man. Not a hint of flesh remained upon the bones, and only traces of cloth still clung to the scattered remnants. However, Nermesa discovered something else in the process, several pieces of a casing that lay around the vicinity of the skeleton.

  A burial box? Nermesa squinted, trying to make out what lay ahead. He stretched his fingers forward and discovered a wall with some sort of markings etched into it.

  Standing, the Aquilonian felt along part of the wall, finding more markings. At an abrupt opening some height above the pile of rubble, he found what appeared a crevice in the wall.

  Suspecting the truth now, Nermesa took a few tentative steps to his right. Sure enough, he found a cracked area in which his probing hand located more grisly remains.

  Somehow, the break in the sewer had led him to one of Tebes’ old catacombs. How old, Nermesa could not say, but perhaps if he followed along the ancient corridor, he would eventually find a way to the upper world again. Certainly, it was better than waiting here for something else to happen.

  He stumbled along the edge of what had once been a walkway between the sides of the catacombs but was now a ledge over the submerged ruins of the rest of the floor. Somewhere in the past, probably long after the sewer had broken through to this place, the years of water had caused the floor to sink deep. Perhaps there was even another level to the catacombs below or maybe more than one. Whatever the case, Nermesa feared that if he fell into these black waters, he would find them far, far deeper than those he had barely escaped.

  Most Corinthian city-states were built near or over rivers, and Tebes was no exception. From what little he knew of Tebes, Nermesa surmised the waters flowing through here to be from the River Olympos, branches of which fed at least two other city-states. Tebes had obviously made early use of the river and, from the looks of things, had diverted part of its course dramatically after the catacombs had been built. The sewer designers clearly had not known what lurked but a short distance from their master plan.

  The way grew narrower, finally forcing Nermesa to sheathe his sword. He glan
ced at the dark water but saw little. Curiously, though, far ahead it seemed that there was some sort of pale luminescence, as if several hundred fireflies had gathered there.

  Hoping that it was at last his way to freedom, the ragged knight increased his pace. His footing proved slippery more than once, but at last he neared the area.

  To his consternation, however, the illumination turned out not to be at all what Nermesa had expected. He had been closer to the truth when he had thought it reminded him of fireflies, for the source was indeed natural, if far different from an insect.

  A vast colony—the Aquilonian knew no better word—of pale, blue lichen clustered over the vaults of the dead. Judging by their widespread reach, Nermesa believed that they represented centuries of growth. There was so much lichen that Nermesa could see some distance ahead, enough to know that the catacombs continued on much farther.

  Despite his disappointment at not finding an exit, he was grateful for the light, however unsettling it was. It not only enabled Bolontes’ son to better watch his footing, but revealed to him that the water’s current had grown much stronger. Whether that hinted of anything, Nermesa could not say, but he swore to himself to stay clear of it.

  As would be expected, debris had, over the centuries, piled up here and there. Some of it was trash from above, other parts broken segments from the catacombs. Now and then, bits of bone and such thrust out of the makeshift mounds, reminding Nermesa of his fate should he not find a way out.

  Then, much to his dismay, his side of the ledge finally completely vanished. He peered across and saw that the other went on out of sight. Frustrated, but with little other choice, the Black Dragon wended his way back several yards to a particularly large deposit of debris that spread across the catacombs.

  He tested out the solidity of the mass, then started to crawl across. Memories of the last time he had tried to cross running water so flashed into his mind. Then, he had been out in the Westermarck, on the one hand seeking to evade Picts and brigands and on the other trying to warn his fellow soldiers. His crossing had proven ill-fated, with Nermesa being washed down the river and nearly drowning.