Nermesa suddenly snorted in self-derision. He could do more than simply wait for his own terrible death! For much of his life, he had dreamed of serving the king and his beloved Aquilonia, and now that the utmost was demanded of him, he worried only about his own skin.
And why was Set-Anubis after him? Nermesa finally realized that it could only do with the attacks on the caravans. Somehow, the sorcerer was involved, although at first glance, the Aquilonian saw no reason for him to be. Surely, Set-Anubis had not been reduced to thieving . . .
“Where is the nearest town or settlement other than Sarta?” he asked the witch.
“Sonos is the nearest. Three days at good pace.” With hesitation, she added, “I will take you there. They are friendly to me, for I have used my arts to heal some of their sick.”
“Good. I appreciate that.”
The Ophirian rose. “I do not think the fiend will return before then, but I will place wards around the area that may at least warn us if he does.”
As she slipped out of the hut, Nermesa leaned back, thinking. He, too, did not believe that Set-Anubis would return this night, but they dared not wait any longer than first light to leave. Besides, it was time that he turned from the hunted back into the hunter . . .
The rustling of the flap stirred Nermesa, and he realized that he had drifted off to sleep. Malkuri had returned from outside, her expression pensive.
“I think they will do . . . I hope that they will do.”
Just as a precaution, though, Nermesa drew his sword and set it next to him. Then, feeling his exhaustion taking control again, he shut his eyes. He would need all his strength, if not for Set-Anubis, then for the journey.
There was movement next to him. Nermesa heard Malkuri’s close breathing and felt the warmth of her body near his own. He prepared to reject her advance, but all she did was gently wrap one arm over his, as if seeking comfort from the darkness against which they had both just fought.
Nermesa might have lent her his other arm, too, but it already worked to comfort him . . . by tightly gripping the hilt of his sword.
And thus he slept for the remainder of the night.
ALTHOUGH NERMESA STIRRED before daylight, Malkuri woke even before he did. She already had everything of value to her bound up in a small sack she carried on her back. In addition, the witch held a staff that, by the manner of her grip, was clearly meant as a weapon as well as a tool . . . and likely was the item she had used on his head during their first encounter.
There were dried rabbit and berries awaiting the Aquilonian, who felt some shame that Malkuri had done so much while he had apparently slept like a rock. As her defender, he found himself far below measure.
Her skills apparently included reading thoughts, for the Ophirian finally said, “Fear not that you slept, Nermesa Klandes. You are the one on whom the fiend has set his unholy sight; the sleep you badly needed . . . and I had much to do.”
One thing that that knight immediately noticed different was that the totem had vanished. Malkuri could not have put all the skulls in her sack; not only would she not have had room for anything else, but even some of the skulls would have still had to remain behind.
He dared to bring it up, to which she willingly replied, “I have returned them to the forest and ground. All save Zyr’s, which is in the sack. He refused to leave me, and I gratefully accept his continued watch.”
Nermesa half expected to see the ghost of the wolf-dog suddenly come inside and stand guard next to his mistress. Trying to banish such a vision, the Aquilonian pursued his own needs, quickly gathering up what little he had and offering to carry whatever else the witch thought that she might wish to take with her.
Malkuri bowed her head in gratitude, but declined. “I have long learned to travel with only what I can easily carry, Nermesa Klandes. This is not the first home I have abandoned, nor will it be the last.”
“I’m sorry to be the cause.”
“There would have been another. There is always another. It is my fate.” She would say no more, and he did not press.
The sky was overcast, and so when day came, it did so as a grudging shadow of itself. Nermesa wondered if the clouds might be part of some new spell by Set-Anubis, but as Malkuri did not comment on them, he chose to believe that they were what they appeared to be and no more.
His companion led him along what at first seemed the most awkward of paths until she explained that she followed what her skills told her was the most elusive one, the better to keep from the mystic gaze of the sorcerer. After what he had experienced so far, Bolontes’ son willingly followed no matter how sudden and odd the shift in direction.
The first day went without threat. Nermesa volunteered to stand guard for a time even when Malkuri insisted that her wards would do as well as he. Exhaustion finally forced the Black Dragon to surrender his post for slumber, but he continued to keep his sword ready even while asleep.
Mitra at last seemed to smile on Nermesa, for, three and a half days later, the pair reached the edge of Sonos.
The settlement was larger and more civilized than Nermesa had expected, with several stone-and-wood structures. There were no cobblestone streets, but the inhabitants had covered their dirt ones with a layer of fresh straw, which Malkuri explained was replaced every few days per Corinthian custom.
Most of the homes were round buildings with thatched roofs, but the two most prominent—the smithy and the meeting house—had high, sturdy roofs with wooden tiles. The meeting house, where locals gathered with the town elders to hold council, was built entirely of stone and mortar and, with its slit windows, looked as if it doubled as a place of last refuge during an attack.
Visitors were evidently not so common that their arrival did not bring many stares. Yet most of them seemed directed at Nermesa, not his arresting companion. A few locals, possibly former patients, even bowed their heads in respect to the witch.
Two men in used breastplates and wielding spears approached the newcomers as they neared the center of the settlement. One placed the tip of his spear against Nermesa’s chest. The Aquilonian refrained from leaping back and drawing his own weapon, aware that, while he was capable of taking on the man, the other was only doing his duty.
“What business have you in Sonos?”
Malkuri reached a gentle hand out to the burly, bearded man’s wrist, saying, “He travels with me, Herodius. Is that not enough?”
“Phillipian’s ordered we take no chances. There were riders past here two days ago with the look of Sarta on them. Sonos is no vassal of Sarta and never will be!”
“I am not from Sarta,” Nermesa interjected.
“And not from anywhere else in Corinthia,” muttered the second guard, a reed-thin man with black eyes. Nermesa judged him the more capable fighter of the pair, despite his clearly being subordinate to Herodius. “That’s an Aquilonian voice, if I mark correct!”
Malkuri stood in front of Nermesa. “And does Sonos have quarrel with Aquilonia? There was none with Ophir when I first came to Sonos.”
“That’s . . . different,” argued Herodius.
Nermesa suspected it had been different. He could not see how any man could consider Malkuri a menace. The women of Sonos, perhaps . . .
“I swear by what goodwill I have earned that he is here in friendship and need, Herodius. Go and tell Phillipian so. We will wait for his word—”
“You need never wait for my word or my devotion, dear Malkuri,” said a voice to Nermesa’s left.
All four turned to see a man nearly the age of Nermesa’s father, but as lean and as capable as General Pallantides. He wore a short, dark beard trimmed just below the jaw and was clad in robes of gray and forest green. His face was round but well featured, with brown, knowing eyes that more often than not alighted on the beautiful witch.
He wore no sword and walked as if confident that he needed none. To Malkuri, the man stretched out a hand in greeting. Out of the corner of his eye, Nermesa thought he detected the slightest
of blushes from the Ophirian. She took the hand in her own, holding it a moment longer than custom deemed sufficient.
“Phillipian . . .” Malkuri murmured.
“Malkuri, beautiful Malkuri . . . will you be my bride?”
His audacious question startled Nermesa, but the Ophirian simply—and perhaps sadly—shook her head. “My fate lies elsewhere, Phillipian. That you know.”
“Aah, but even you admit that in that one aspect, you know not what will be . . . and so, I continue to ask and hope that your fate decides to add me to it.” Before she could say more, he turned to Nermesa. “Yes, you are an Aquilonian, aren’t you?”
“I am Captain Nermesa Klandes of the Black Dragons, my lord.”
“And I am no lord, simply headman of Sonos.” Phillipian took his hand. His grip was powerful. “Welcome to our home, Captain Nermesa.” He turned to Herodius and the other guard. “Arrest him, will you?”
10
PHILLIPIAN TREATED NERMESA with the utmost respect, but that hardly made up for the fact that the Aquilonian now sat in what passed for a jail in Sonos. At the headman’s command, Herodius and his partner marched the captain to the meeting building and a lone, iron cell situated in one corner. A wooden bench with a blanket acted as bed, chair, and dinner table.
Malkuri was not allowed to go with him. Instead, Phillipian whispered something in her ear, then guided her away.
The moment that he was incarcerated, Nermesa was forced to give up the remnants of his armor. Both armor and sword were taken by Herodius to Phillipian, no doubt—at least in Nermesa’s mind—to be kept as spoils of the capture by the headman.
Herodius then came back with the simple garb of a Corinthian peasant. These he tossed into the cell, growling, “You want your life, put these on! Toss the rest out!”
There seemed no use in arguing, especially since most of the Aquilonian’s garments were rags by this time. He did as the guard commanded. Herodius returned a few minutes after, grunted satisfaction, then picked up what Nermesa had tossed out and left again.
Barely had he done so when the clatter of many hooves reached Nermesa. Through the one tiny window high in his cell—so high, in fact, that he was forced to stand on his toes atop the bench to peer out—the imprisoned officer watched as a full unit of cavalry burst into the settlement. By their markings, they were from Sarta.
Nermesa cursed. Phillipian intended to turn him over to the soldiers as a peace offering. He wished then that he had not surrendered so readily, but at the time his intuition had told him to do so.
A broad-chinned giant with a hook nose and long mustache, who was clearly the officer in charge, dismounted. Herodius ran into sight, immediately taking the Sartan’s reins.
“We come in search of a foreign rat, a renegade soldier from Aquilonia with ties to bandits! He was said to be sighted near here!”
“Aye, so we heard, Captain!” Herodius quickly returned, his head bobbing up and down as he spoke. “Master Phillipian—”
“Yes, where is your Master Phillipian?” growled the Sartan officer. “If he thinks to hide the scum—”
“He would be a fool to do so!” finished the headman, appearing from the left side of the window.
Nermesa almost shouted a curse at the man. He wondered how Malkuri could have such obvious feelings for one with no true sense of honor. The Aquilonian had entered Sonos in peace.
“Captain Cicero,” continued Phillipian. “It has been too long since Sonos had the pleasure of your visit.”
“And it’s been too short since duty forced me to this dirt hole, Master Phillipian.”
The headman bowed apologetically. “If you are thirsty, I can at least offer some of our fine local ale—”
“That swill? Bah! We’ll be doing our duty and getting back as soon as possible!”
“As you wish. And I may be able to help you do just that, Captain. A body was discovered that I think was your man.”
“Lead on, then.” But before Captain Cicero could take more than a step, Phillipian politely indicated that he should halt.
“I have already ordered men to bring the body here. They should be on their way.”
Sure enough, from beyond Nermesa’s view of the left, there came a call. Both Phillipian and the captain turned in that direction. Moments later, two men carrying a covered form came into view. They tossed the body to the ground with little fanfare.
Captain Cicero bent down to uncover it. Nermesa stifled a gasp when he saw hints of armor. For a brief moment, he wondered if another Black Dragon had found his way to Sonos, only to perish, then realized it was his own equipment that he saw.
The man whose corpse pretended to be his had been roughly Nermesa’s height, but his hair was a shade darker and his face more swarthy. His specific features the Aquilonian could not see, but there was some hint that they had been damaged during whatever had caused his death.
As Nermesa watched in morbid fascination, the Sartan looked over the body. He especially marked the bits of armor, grunting in satisfaction as he studied one closely.
“Where’d you find this?” the officer asked, rising.
“In a ravine a half day’s ride in the direction of Tebes,” Phillipian immediately replied.
“Where’s his sword? I was specifically told to watch for a sword. One with lions on it.”
Nermesa frowned. Someone knew much more about him than they should have.
The headman spread his hands. “No sword was found. No valuables of any sort. They even took his breastplate.” Phillipian bent down and turned the body over. Much of the back of the corpse’s garment was stained red. “Slain from behind. The brigands we’ve spoken of before, Captain. I’d wager one of them is sporting the breastplate and wielding the sword you want.”
Cicero rubbed his chin in thought. “Damned scum!” He looked over the body once more, then turned to his men. “You . . . and you!” The two soldiers in question dismounted. “Secure this garbage for travel!”
As the men obeyed, Nermesa exhaled. Phillipian’s plan was clear; he had arrested the Aquilonian to keep him out of sight and now used this other body as a decoy for the Sartans. The headman had clearly known of the imminent arrival of the searchers, hence his quick and, at the time, curious actions.
Phillipian bowed to Captain Cicero again. “Can I not persuade you to join us for a community meal tonight? You recall it from your last visit, I hope.”
The Sartan officer’s expression grew disgusted again. “Your ale’s sour enough, and now you offer that black goat stew?” He turned on the men loading the body atop one of the horses. “Get moving there!”
Phillipian politely stepped back as the captain returned to his own mount. “You are welcome back at any time, Captain Cicero!”
“Never again would be too soon!” snorted the Sartan as he tugged on the reins. Turning his steed about, he waved to the rest of the soldiers. “Move out!”
With relief, Nermesa watched as the Sartans began riding off. The two soldiers finished securing the body, then mounted on the remaining horse.
As the second got on, he happened to glance in the direction of the cell window. Nermesa instinctively pulled out of sight, only after doing so realizing his terrible mistake. He would have drawn less interest if he had just stayed at the window, pretending to be a simple prisoner.
He waited, certain that the soldier would shout out a warning to his commanding officer. Instead, though, the sounds of retreating hooves drew him back to the window just in time to see the final soldiers vanishing into the forest.
The Aquilonian slumped against the wall, now at last able to breathe easy.
Several minutes went by before someone finally came for him. Herodius, a grim smile on his face, opened the door of the cell as Phillipian joined the pair.
“I trust you understand now,” remarked the headman.
“You could have said something.”
“There was no time for discussion . . . and if the worst case happe
ned, I would have turned you over to them for the sake of the people of Sonos.”
Nermesa accepted the blunt statement. Phillipian’s first loyalty was to those under his care. While the Aquilonian would not have been happy with such an outcome, under the same circumstances he might have done likewise.
“Fortunately,” the other man said with a more friendly smile, “they took what was before them as what they searched for.”
“The body—where did it come from?”
Shrugging, Phillipian answered, “Much of what I said was truth, except that he was a brigand, not the victim of one. We caught him last night. He tried to escape earlier today and was slain. Our intention was to burn his body, as we do with all refuse.” With a harsh laugh, the headman added, “But your situation came up before we had the chance. Truly, Mitra must smile over you.”
Perhaps in this one instance, but Nermesa did not feel so in general. Nothing went simply for him. He had hoped to get food and rest in the hut, only to be snared by a witch and nearly killed again by a fiendish sorcerer. Then, what Malkuri had promised would be a friendly settlement had immediately tossed him into jail. Of course, the latter had been done for his own good, but he had not known that at the time.
“One thing I still don’t understand. Why hide me from them in the first place. As part of Sarta—”
“Watch your tongue!” snarled Herodius.
“Easy, friend,” Phillipian said to the guard. “Nermesa Klandes is not familiar with Corinthia. We may be near enough for Sartan soldiers to come searching for wayward Aquilonians, but we are most definitely not a part of their city-state. We are as independent as Tebes or any other. Sonos will not become a vassal of Sarta.”
“Not that we’ve encouraged them to want us much,” added Herodius, his mood bettering. “God-awful stuff we made ’em drink and eat the last couple times!”
To Nermesa’s puzzled expression, the headman explained, “We have no illusions concerning our chances should Sarta decide to annex us. But I decided to try an experiment in discouragement. Each time Sartan officers brought troops in here—Sarta was not yet the power it has become—we welcomed them with a feast and drink.”
The Eye of Charon Page 13