His chance came from a most unlikely source. Rapids opened up ahead, high rocks creating a violent path perfectly designed to crack open boat hulls and smash bones. The latter would surely have been Nermesa’s fate if not for some underwater growth snagging his foot and slowing him. That enabled the gasping knight to seize the nearest of the rocks and use it instead for purchase. With grim determination, Nermesa struggled from that rock to one nearer the bank, then on to one closer. His muscles shrieked, and his lungs felt as if they were filled with water, but the Black Dragon fought on.
And then, when he thought he could go no farther, Nermesa managed to plant one hand on the muddy bank. That instilled in him what he needed to shove the rest of his body forward, until all but his feet lay on somewhat dry land.
At which point, Nermesa finally allowed himself to collapse.
WHEN HE AWOKE again, the Aquilonian crawled higher, at last escaping the area of the river entirely. Shoving himself against a tree, he dared look back at the distant but malevolent flow of water. He was becoming loath to be near rivers and their like, for it seemed that Mitra or some other god was determined that he be given to such bodies to be used as their plaything.
After resting for a time, Nermesa dared test his legs. They shook, but held his weight. For the first time, he peered around, trying to get a read on his surroundings. There was nothing that Nermesa recognized about them, not that such a discovery surprised him. He could only assume that he was either southeast or southwest of Tebes. How far, though, it was impossible to say.
He had slept at least a day, of that the weary Aquilonian was certain. The sun currently hung midway between its peak and the western horizon, indicating that Nermesa had some three hours of light left to him. By the turmoil going on in his stomach, Bolontes’ son knew that he would have to find some sort of food before then.
Despite his distaste for the river, Nermesa dared not leave its vicinity. Logically, the best way to return to Tebes was by following it up. That limited where he could search for food, though. True, fishing was an option, but it would take too much effort to put something together with which to fish.
At last, he determined to give himself a fixed distance from the bank in which to search. His first foray, though, provided him with only a few bitter berries that he spat out for fear of poison. His second attempt proved no better. Nermesa cursed his failed efforts, aware that the sun was very near the horizon now.
But with his third attempt, Nermesa uncovered a surprising bounty. A rabbit squirming about in a cage trap. The Aquilonian bent to retrieve the prize, already contemplating how quickly he could build a fire and skin the animal.
But his fingers proved too clumsy and the rabbit slipped from his grip, escaping into the nearby brush. Nermesa threw himself at the animal, but to no avail.
He sat there for a time, almost ready to surrender to the elements. Then, glaring at the trap, he continued into the forest. If there was a trap, there had to be a trapper . . . or so the frustrated Aquilonian hoped.
No longer heeding his own decision to stay near the river, Nermesa hunted for any sign of the other soul. Even as darkness gradually blanketed the land, the captain journeyed farther. By now, his muddied mind had conjured up visions of a village, replete with inn, where the locals would welcome any lost traveler.
However, Nermesa found no such settlement. What he did at last confront just as the final hints of daylight faded, was a rounded hut made of branches and skins. It brought back memories of the Pict shaman, Tokanu, who had helped Nermesa against Khati for his own personal reasons. Of course, in Corinthia, it was doubtful that there were any Picts. This had to be the trapper’s hut.
Far past any concern about invading another’s home, Nermesa headed directly for the deerskin flap. All he cared about was finding something to eat and drink.
Ferocious barking sent him reaching for his sword. A thick-furred beast with a mouthful of teeth lunged toward him from the right of the hut—
And jerked to a halt more than a yard short as the rope acting as tether kept the animal from ripping into the hungry knight.
The brown-and-black beast resembled a wolf, but had some canine features to it. It growled and snapped at Nermesa, spattering him with saliva.
Keeping his sword sheathed, Nermesa wended his way around the snarling animal. The rope allowed the creature to stand in front of the flap, which meant that the Aquilonian could not enter unless he either slew it or created a distraction of some sort.
Not wishing to kill an innocent animal, especially one belonging to a person likely to be unwittingly sharing his food with Nermesa, the Black Dragon sought out a large, thick branch. He then approached the still-growling beast and used the branch to prod it back. The wolf-dog snapped at Nermesa’s makeshift weapon, but could not get around it.
The Aquilonian pushed the creature back just enough to gain entrance . . . then, with a last swing of the branch, leapt inside.
Teeth snapped at his heels, but to no avail. Unable even to thrust its head through the flap, the wolf-dog had to content itself with barking and growling at its general surroundings.
Too famished to care about the noise, Nermesa looked around. His eyes immediately set upon a small cache of dark bread and dried meat. The Aquilonian needed no further invitation, dropping to his knees and taking a share of each.
As he stuffed some of the bread in his mouth, Nermesa saw a jug. On a hunch, he picked it up and undid the stopper. A tentative taste verified that it was water. Taking several eager gulps, Nermesa returned to his eating.
As his stomach registered the food, the knight calmed. He took a better look at his surroundings . . . his gaze freezing on an unsettling tableau to his left.
A totem had been set up, one consisting of the skulls of small, woodland creatures. The pile was an almost perfect pyramid shape, with larger skulls at the base and the tiniest—a mouse’s perhaps—at the top.
Memories of the Picts resurfaced. Nermesa suddenly had an uncomfortable feeling. Finishing up his meal, he drew his sword and made for the flap. The knight prodded it with his sword, then stepped out into the darkening forest.
Too late, Nermesa realized that not only had the wolf-dog ceased barking, but it was nowhere to be seen.
A heavy object struck him on the back of the head.
THERE WERE TWO things that Nermesa—once he woke—decided that he loathed. One was rivers, a subject the Aquilonian had earlier pondered. The second was the many things that seemed to find his skull worthy of cracking.
As he shifted more into consciousness, he noted a voice quietly singing in a tongue vaguely familiar to him. A female voice. His eyes slowly registered a flickering light, which coalesced into a small fire set in the middle of the hut. Over the fire hung a well-cooked squirrel.
A shape moved near the fire, a slim form with long, brunette hair cascading down nearly to the wearer’s waist. As his eyesight sharpened, Nermesa saw a dark complexion, deep, veiled eyes, and a full, firm mouth over which hung a slim, curved nose. There was something about her general appearance that reminded him of General Pallantides, as if she were related to the commander of the Black Dragons somehow.
Thought of the general reminded Nermesa of his duty. He tried to move, only to find himself bound.
His actions caught the attention of the young woman behind the fire. Eyes that glittered like black diamonds measured the prisoner. The woman rose, revealing that she wore a short skirt and tunic that barely covered her lithe form.
She said something in the language that Nermesa found familiar but could not understand. When he shook his head, she switched to another with an equal lack of success. Finally, the woman simply stared at her prisoner as if waiting.
Nermesa at last understood that she was waiting for him to speak. Somewhat abashed, the captain muttered, “I apologize for breaking into your home, my lady. I wouldn’t have done so if it were not necessary.”
The figure hesitated, then replied, “Aqui
lonian, you are?”
“Yes.” There seemed no useful reason to hide the fact. “I am Captain Nermesa Klandes, serving his majesty, King Conan.”
“Conan . . .” She glanced at the fire. “I have heard of him.”
He did not doubt that, the king’s exploits legendary and spanning nearly every realm. Seeing that she did not so far seem inclined toward slaying him, Nermesa sought some knowledge of his own. “You are not Corinthian.”
“No,” she said with a bit of pride. “I am not.”
Her short response was not what the knight had hoped for. He eyed the squirrel on the stick. “I’m glad you found more food. I felt bad that I had to take what was yours. It’s not my way.”
“I believe you.” The woman came around the fire. When she moved, her body strained her garment. She reminded Nermesa very much of a black panther on the prowl. “You did nothing to Zyr, although his barking brought me back to deal with you. That marks either a desperate man in need of food only or an absolute fool. I do not mark you as the latter, Nermesa Klandes.”
“I appreciate that. Does that also mean that you might free me from these ropes?”
Her half smile taunted and teased. “In a moment, perhaps.”
Turning from him, the woman took a small jug and poured a tiny bit of the contents in a wooden cup. She then added some water from the larger jug.
“You should drink this,” his captor said, offering the cup to his lips.
He had watched with all too much interest as she had poured the first liquid into the mug. “What’s in it?”
“Something to put you at ease . . .” When he still did not drink, she smiled and drank so that he saw that the contents did indeed go down her smooth throat.
It was still possible that the cup contained some poison to which the woman was immune, but Nermesa decided to chance it. He opened his mouth and allowed her to tip the cup toward his lips. The liquid within tasted only of water. He swallowed all she gave him.
“If you still worry,” the dark figure murmured close to his ear. “It will not kill you . . . I think.”
With a sultry laugh, she pulled from her waist a long knife upon whose blade were inscribed runes. As she readily sliced away at his bonds, she whispered. “And I am Malkuri . . .”
The name made him sit up straight, not because he knew of her, but because he recognized her origin now. “Ophirian! You’re Ophirian? Have I flowed so far south that I’m now in Ophir?”
Again came her laugh, a sound that suddenly stirred flames within Nermesa. “No, man of Aquilonia. You are in Corinthia and not far from that place which they call Sarta.”
“Sarta?” that confused him nearly as much as the thought of being in Ophir originally had. According to all logic, he should have been much, much farther south. “That cannot be! I was in Tebes last and the river could not have taken me up to Sarta!”
As she finished freeing him, Malkuri slid to his right onto a pile of furs. “Perhaps you were under a spell . . .”
A spell? Nermesa fought his growing desire for this beautiful woman by turning his gaze in the opposite direction. Unfortunately, that left him staring at the skulls. “A spell, you say?” he blurted. “Such as a witch could cast?”
“Be not afraid of those,” the Ophirian returned, sliding across the furs until she was near enough to touch him again. “They were taken with permission, and I honor all who gave themselves for my needs. From their spirits I ask small favors, but nothing so base as to send a man into such confusion that he fears for his mind . . .”
He did not quite follow her explanation, having fixated on the fact that she was a witch. The last witch he had encountered had been Khati and the fact that Malkuri was as beguiling—if not more so—than the Pict did not make Nermesa any less suspicious. “What brings an Ophirian witch to the climes of northern Corinthia, if she is but a simple practitioner who troubles no man?”
Some of Malkuri’s confidence eroded. Her smile faded as she looked into her own memories. “What else could, but the House of Chelkus?”
“Chelkus!” Nermesa breathed. Even as far away as Tarantia, rumors of the House of Chelkus made themselves known. Chelkus, reputed to spawn many gifted in sorcery or alchemy. Pallantides had once let something slip that indicated he knew more about Chelkus than the rumors, but Nermesa had never dared pursue that subject with his commander. Now he wished that he had. “You are of that House?”
“Of the weakest part,” the Ophirian answered bitterly. “But carrying the blood and gift that made me a prize mare offered by the patriarch to a cousin of mine.”
“A man with more of the gift?”
“Not only the gift, Nermesa Klandes, but a visage whose ugliness was only surpassed by his dark tastes! But none of that mattered, so long as the potential for a powerful child was there . . .”
The Aquilonian shuddered, aware that his own arranged betrothal had offered far less trouble than Malkuri’s had and yet he had been repulsed by that suggested union. “But you fled Ophir before it could take place . . .”
She glared at him. “Think you that? Would that I could have! My protest was known and so I was kept secured until the marriage! For two years, barely out of childhood, I was his mate, his plaything . . . and the mother of his firstborn.”
Firstborn . . . “A child?” Without realizing it, Nermesa quickly glanced around the hut, seeking some sign of a child’s presence.
Malkuri must have noted his reaction, for she laughed again, but this time most bitterly. “There is no young one wandering around, playing with Zyr and climbing trees, Nermesa Klandes! He died barely three days old . . . and a good thing, for his father would have used him for his own terrible gain!”
“What?” Horror spread across the captain’s face as the true meaning of Malkuri’s words registered. “You mean he would have—but his own son?”
The Ophirian witch made a cutting gesture that was unmistakable in its bluntness. “To some, blood is a worthy tool of the arts, the fresher and more powerful it is.”
“Monstrous!”
His exclamation made her eyes suddenly soften. Once more desire suddenly burned within him. “I mourned my child and in his death found the will to flee. Since then, this has been my home. Zyr I found abandoned near the walls of Sarta. He was only a pup, but he struggled for life that he had not first asked for . . . which is why he bears my son’s name also.”
Well could Nermesa understand her calling the wolf-dog by her child’s name. Alone, with only the memory of the brief life she had created, Malkuri had no doubt been filled with a vast emptiness.
“I’m . . . sorry,” the Aquilonian muttered, his words seeming so worthless in the face of her loss.
Malkuri abruptly leaned into him, making it impossible not to see the bounty her body offered. The eyes that looked into his burned as brightly as his desire.
“No, Nermesa Klandes, I am sorry . . .” Her full lips neared his as, in a whisper, she added, “but perhaps not so very much as I first thought.”
He had no chance to question what she meant by the last, for then the Ophirian witch was upon him.
THREE DAYS PASSED in which Nermesa barely even left the hut of Malkuri. He knew that he had to move on, had to continue his quest, but something always drew him back to her. Nermesa suspected that it had to do with the draughts that she gave him twice each day, but the Aquilonian could not bring himself to refuse them when they were offered.
“They will give you strength a month of sleep cannot,” the dark-tressed Ophirian promised. “They will help recoup all that was lost, Nermesa Klandes.”
And each time that she offered herself, he took her with an obsessiveness that part of him questioned. It was not that she was not desirable, but another face always intruded in his mind even then. A face surrounded by a cascade of auburn hair.
Yet, still Nermesa always surrendered his will to Malkuri.
Even in sleeping, his thoughts were troubled by this. He would become determine
d to leave at first light, then wonder how he could abandon the woman. He would reprimand himself for such outrageous behavior, then feel the fire within stirring again.
This night, the fourth of his stay, the turmoil worsened. In addition to his troubled thoughts, his head now pounded, too. It started as a slight headache, but rapidly grew to a sensation akin to a hundred giants beating at his skull. Worse, that sensation spread to his entire body. He shifted uncomfortably, trying to rid himself of the growing pain, but nothing worked.
Then a sound intruded into his slumber. A gentle murmuring that reminded him of Malkuri. The Aquilonian focused on the sound, drawing some relief from it.
But suddenly another, more violent noise shattered any hope of peace. A crash . . . followed by another crash. Nermesa fought not to wake, but failed.
A terrible rumble of thunder shook away the last vestiges of sleep. The wind howled, and what sounded like a torrent of rain battered the small hut. Malkuri had bound the flap tight, but now it seemed to be struggling to burst inward, as if some giant invisible beast sought entrance.
Nermesa sought for his sword, but the weapon was out of reach. Malkuri’s voice rose above the din, the murmuring he had heard in his slumber actually the Ophirian witch chanting over the totem of skulls.
His constant desire for her suddenly drained away as he decided that she was the cause of the storm. All this time, she had been plotting something, and now it had reached fruition. The witch had drugged him to keep him pliable for just this moment.
Pushing himself up, Nermesa reached over and harshly grabbed her shoulder. A growl rose up from the corner of the hut, where Zyr suddenly stood ready to defend his mistress. Nermesa vaguely recalled that the wolf-dog had stayed in the hut untethered throughout the knight’s stay, not bothering the pair. Now, however, Zyr clearly noticed the hostility in Nermesa.
The Eye of Charon Page 11