The Eye of Charon

by Richard A. Knaak

  With Set-Anubis chuckling at this comment, the trio left. Betavio seized the torch at the last moment, plunging Nermesa into darkness.

  The knight silently cursed his lost opportunity. If the sorcerer had not been in his path, he could have escaped and warned the throne. Now he was not only chained, but once more frozen.

  Yet, when he was finally certain that the others were gone, Nermesa once more concentrated on regaining his ability to move. Set-Anubis had claimed that Nermesa had a strong will, one that could eventually overcome this spell. The captive officer hoped that the sorcerer had spoken true.

  For the longest time, his fierce concentration on his left hand only garnered him a headache. Despite that, Nermesa continued to struggle to flex even one tiny finger. He had done it before, but now time was of the essence. Despite Betavio’s words, it was possible that his captors could return at any time.

  There! His index finger twitched. Although it was only a vague movement in the dark, it was the most joyous of sights to the Black Dragon. He immediately forced it to work again and again, then tried to move it in concert with the rest.

  After what was surely more than an hour, most of his hand and even part of his arm responded readily to his demands. Curiously, his progress magnified with each success, almost as if the spell as a whole had had less of an effect upon him from the start.

  His legs seemed the slowest to respond. Finally, though, he at least had enough control to know that he could stand on his own. Nermesa ceased focusing on them and turned to the true impediment to his escape. The manacles were rusty—that much he knew from his earlier glimpse—but still very solid. Seizing the chains, Nermesa tugged again and again, using his entire body. Yet, the chains remained solidly planted in the walls.

  The placing of the manacles prevented Nermesa from using both hands on one chain. Frustrated, he stood there for a time, unable to think of what else to do. It seemed that Betavio had been right not to be at all concerned about Nermesa. At the moment, the knight was as helpless as if he was still frozen.

  In mounting anxiety, he slammed his fists back against the wall.

  The left manacle clicked.

  Nermesa immediately tugged against it, but it still held. Yet he had definitely heard the sound, and it could only have come from the locking mechanism within. He twisted his wrist as much as possible, trying to put the lock toward the wall. When he could bring it no nearer, the knight again slammed the manacle against the stone as hard as possible.

  Although nothing happened, Nermesa did not give in. Making certain that the lock was once again in position, the captive officer banged the manacle against the wall.

  Still, nothing happened. Nermesa listened for any sign that someone was coming to find out the cause of the noise. When, after a time, no one did, he had to assume that they had seen no reason to leave a guard in the vicinity.

  With that in mind, Bolontes’ son began hammering at the manacle with as much strength as he could muster. Over and over, he slammed the bracelet against the stone, trying to get it to unlock.

  Then, just as he was about to give up hope, the manacle sprang open. Nermesa smothered a triumphant laugh and turned to work on the second.

  But no matter what he did, that manacle remained locked. Seizing the chain with both hands, Nermesa let out his fury on the links. He would not be defeated so near escape—

  The sound of footsteps in the corridor made him pause. Was someone at last coming to look in on him?

  Nermesa quickly flattened against the wall, seizing the loosened chains and wrapping them so that it appeared that he was still held prisoner. He then froze in position.

  Torchlight illuminated the corridor. Moments later, a figure appeared. Although he wore the livery of House Sibelio, he was not one of the Gundermen. The guard peered inside, then stepped up to the prisoner. With one finger, he reached out and poked the still knight in the chest. The guard had obviously heard of Set-Anubis’ spell and was curious to see it for himself.

  Nermesa rewarded the man’s inquisitiveness by seizing him by the throat and pulling him against the wall. The torch flew to the floor. Using his chained hand to smother the guard’s mouth, the desperate knight tightened his grip on the throat as much as possible.

  There was a gurgle, and the guard went limp. Nermesa struggled to keep the man up with his chained hand while searching him with the other. There was no key to the manacles as he had first hoped, but the guard did have a dagger with a fine point.

  Letting the body finally slip to the floor, Nermesa pried at the lock with the dagger. Had it been a new lock, he doubted that he would have had a chance, but the rust magnified his chances.

  Several minutes passed . . . then the telltale click echoed through the chamber.

  Nermesa forced open the manacle. Rubbing his wrist, he bent down to search the guard. The man’s sword and sheath Nermesa immediately confiscated, but there was little else of value to him. He then hefted up the corpse and, after some effort, managed to chain both wrists. The body would obviously not fool anyone with a torch, but even a split-second delay would buy the knight precious time.

  The only question was . . . where should he go? Peering out into the corridor, Nermesa listened. From the direction that the Gundermen had carried him, the Black Dragon heard faint sounds of men at work. Likely Baron Sibelio’s servants unloading the goods. Nermesa wondered if any of it could be traced to caravans attacked. Assuming that he escaped, that was something that he and General Pallantides—along with a contingent of soldiers—could deal with later.

  With so many potential foes down the one direction, Nermesa saw no choice but to enter deeper into the estate. Betavio had said that the baron was entertaining; perhaps that would keep most of the house staff and guards occupied while the knight sought a way out.

  While it was tempting to bring the torch with him, Nermesa did not wish to alert anyone ahead of his approach. Therefore, armed only with the sword—a weapon of far inferior quality to his own—Bolontes’ son slowly wended his way through the dark. He used the sword as a staff, quietly tapping the walls in search of any side corridor.

  The corridor proved to be a very lengthy one, so much so that Nermesa wondered at one point if he had already bypassed the estate house. He had met no other guards, but voices echoed in the dark, some of them seeming quite close. As time went on, Nermesa realized that they had to come from far above in the main part of the house. One of them sounded very much like the Baron Sibelio and at least another was feminine. The Lady Orena? Nermesa wished that he could somehow warn her of the treacherous nature of her husband, but knew that his former betrothed would not believe him unless Antonus stood there and declared the crimes himself.

  Then, footsteps resounded from the blackness ahead. Forgetting the baron and his wife, Nermesa sought out some alcove, someplace where he could hide from the approaching figures. Yet, wherever he ran his fingers or the sword, he found only more wall.

  A faint light materialized a short distance away. Nermesa saw that it came from one of the very side corridors for which he had been searching. He heard two voices, men in argument over a past game of chance.

  “The dice were weighted, I tell ye!”

  “If that were so, then how come they never rolled the same twice?”

  The first voice snarled. “Because that bastard palmed them ...”

  Nermesa went into a run. He prayed to Mitra that the sounds of his hasty steps would be drowned out by the guards’ conversation. The corner lay just ahead of him . . .

  “I don’t know,” went on the second voice. There was a pause, then, “What’s that—?”

  Nermesa spun around the corner, sword already thrust out.

  He caught one of the men through the chest while the pair stared in astonishment at this sudden Fury leaping out of the dark. Even before the one guard fell, Nermesa was on the second, slashing vehemently.

  But the second man used the torch he carried to parry the Black Dragon’s
attack. At the same time, he fumbled for his own weapon.

  Aware that time was of the essence, Nermesa suddenly thrust downward, catching the guard on the thigh. As expected, the man went off-balance. Nermesa seized the hand wielding the torch and turned the flames toward his opponent.

  The heat singed the other’s face. The guard’s cry was quickly cut off by a thrust of Nermesa’s sword through his gullet.

  However, barely had he finished with the last of his foes than Nermesa heard more voices coming from farther down the corridor he had originally been traversing. Quickly dragging the bodies to the side, the captain seized the torch and ran on down the side passage. He doubted that it would be much longer before his escape was discovered, which meant that he had to get out of the estate as soon as possible.

  But how? Nermesa freely admitted to himself that he had no idea where he was going. For all he knew, the corridor he now headed down would lead him only to another set of dungeons. Worse, he might also run afoul of Set-Anubis again . . . and that would surely put an abrupt end to his flight.

  The current corridor suddenly ended for no apparent reason. Nermesa backed up to the last side passage he had seen, then went down it. From there, he turned down two more, his patience rapidly deteriorating as the officer realized just how mazelike the underside of the baron’s estate house was.

  Worse, the passages were growing more untended. They were moist, and the walls were covered with moss and lichen. Dead vermin and refuse littered the corners. No one had been down this way in many years, perhaps even decades, but Nermesa no longer knew where to turn back.

  He finally came across a set of cracked, stone steps leading up. They were so narrow that he almost overlooked them. At this point willing to take any risk if it meant getting to the surface, Nermesa climbed them—only to discover after a flight up that they ended at a wall.

  Seeing no sense to such a design, Nermesa ran his hand over the wall. There had to be a handle or some sort of secret lever or maybe—

  His fingers slipped into a barely discernible depression. As he probed it, the soldier heard a slight click.

  The right side of the wall slid back slightly.

  Shoving against it, Nermesa gradually opened up a passage just wide enough for him to enter. From the effort needed, he judged the hidden door not to have been used for some time. Still, behind it was another set of steps leading up. That was all that mattered.

  Using the torch to burn away a mass of webs, Nermesa pushed on. Huge spiders, unused to any light, scuttled away. The Aquilonian kicked aside those that did not move fast enough.

  The steps wound around as they rose. Nermesa’s hopes increased. Surely he could not be that far from the top.

  Then, as before, the steps ended at a wall. This time, however, Nermesa understood the system. It did not take him long to find the depression. However, unlike before, the wall did not slide open even a crack. He heard the click, but that was all.

  Determined not to be foiled so close to success, the Black Dragon set down the torch and shoved against the recalcitrant wall with all his might. Again and again he threw himself into it.

  Finally, it budged. Twice more, Nermesa acted as a battering ram. The gap that he achieved was very narrow, but with effort, he finally managed to slip through.

  Whereupon, the Aquilonian discovered himself in a sumptuous bedroom.

  Gold-and-silver silken draperies lined the windows. The bed was filled with like-colored down pillows and looked more plush than any Nermesa had ever seen. Glittering statuettes decorated wall niches and the tops of intricately carved mahogany chests. A vast mirror framed in gold leaf covered one wall across from the sumptuous bed. Glancing down, Nermesa saw that his dirty boots trod upon a delicate carpet that appeared to have been imported from Kitan, if the images of men, women, and beasts in fanciful dancing displays was any evidence.

  The chamber was lit by man-sized oil lamps at each corner. Nermesa quickly counted three doors, one of which he dismissed as surely leading to a closet. Then, the nearest of the windows caught his attention, and he went over to see the view.

  It was dark, as the Aquilonian had expected. Yet, by the flickering lights below and in the distance, he could tell that his climb had not only brought him to the surface, but to one of the house’s upper floors. Unfortunately, it also revealed to Nermesa that he had no hope of slipping out the window and climbing down. There was no hold whatsoever, and the drop would kill him as swiftly as a dagger through his heart. He would have to go through the manor itself.

  Returning to the passage, Nermesa shoved the wall closed again. He had no intention whatsoever of returning to the labyrinth below, and there was no sense giving any pursuers from that direction easy access to his present location.

  It came down to a choice between the two doors. Nermesa listened at each, but heard nothing. He leaned down at the first, peering through the keyhole. When he saw only darkness, the knight shifted to the second door.

  But as he did, he suddenly heard footsteps. Nermesa immediately pulled back behind the door. He kept his sword high and ready, prepared to take on every last minion of the baron’s if necessary.

  The door swung open, and a figure swept into the chamber.

  Reacting instinctively, Nermesa wrapped his free arm around the other’s throat and pulled them back to his chest. Simultaneously, he kicked the door shut again.

  Only then did the knight register that his captive was female. Her clothing—a flowing emerald gown—was far too elegant for a house servant, and Nermesa immediately thought of the house’s mistress . . . Orena.

  But Orena was taller, and her hair did not fall past her shoulders in an auburn cascade. Nor, upon turning, would the Baroness Sibelio have gazed up with her soft green eyes and—after a moment of pure startlement—gasped in relief and even some pleasure, his name.

  “Nermesa?”

  Not Orena, no . . . but rather her sister, Telaria.

  17

  “NERMESA!” TELARIA GASPED again. “What—what are you doing here?” Her eyes moistened, and she hugged him tight. “Are you a ghost, then? I’d heard that you were slain by brigands from the queen herself! General Pallantides received the message from Sir Paulo that you were lost during an aborted attack!”

  Despite his present predicament, both Telaria’s face and her news gave Nermesa some heart. Pushing the lady-in-waiting back gently, he eagerly asked, “The caravan survived? The other Black Dragons live?”

  “Some were slain, but most are well. They are supposedly on their way back soon from Nemedia, but there was some question I didn’t understand concerning the ambassador from there . . . Zaro . . . Zoras . . .”

  “Zoran . . .” His mood blackened once more. “A villain.” Thinking of the ambassador also reminded Nermesa of his own predicament . . . and the further complications created by Telaria’s being here.

  “You must flee from here!” he whispered. “Get out before your life is in danger!”

  “But why?”

  “Never mind!” He did not dare reveal the truth about the baron to her. With her own sister married to the traitorous noble, Telaria might do something foolish.

  Orena . . . In all good conscience, Nermesa could not leave his former betrothed here, either. Antonus’ crimes were not hers.

  “Telaria,” the knight began more calmly. “I need you to trust me. I need you to find Orena and get her and you out of this estate. You must pretend that it is only for a simple journey back to the capital, but you need to do it.”

  It said much for her belief in him that the auburn-haired woman immediately nodded. “All right, Nermesa. If you say so. Shall I get the baron, too?”

  “No!” The single word burst from his lips before he could stop himself. The vehemence in his tone surprised even Nermesa.

  His companion was no fool. Telaria’s eyes widened. She put a hand to her lips as she lightly gasped. “Nermesa . . . are you claiming that the baron—”

  “Telaria
—”

  Now, though, she stood her ground. “Nermesa . . . tell me what is going on. Tell me!”

  He opened his mouth to reprimand her for wasting precious seconds, but saw that she would not be denied regardless. As quickly but concisely as he could, Nermesa explained his travails and what he had discovered concerning the baron. By the time he was finished, Telaria was as pale as a ghost.

  “It cannot be true—but I know you’d never lie!” To her credit, she did not tremble. “Orena . . . poor Orena . . .”

  Those were words that Nermesa would have never thought to hear from the younger sister, who had been much abused by the baroness as a child. “Telaria, how do you come to be here?”

  She blushed. Eyes lowered, Telaria replied, “Because of you, Nermesa. When the news reached me of your—of your—” The woman shook her head. Her gaze rose to his. “I can’t even say it now . . . but when the news came, and I thought you gone . . . I couldn’t think or even breathe! The queen was very gracious, but nothing she said or did helped.”

  “Telaria, I—” Words failed the knight.

  “Then I heard from Orena,” the auburn-haired lady-in-waiting continued. “Who had heard from others in the palace. She sent me a letter filled with concern and care such as I recalled from when we were both much younger! She opened herself up to me and offered whatever consolation I needed. Orena also invited me to come see her . . . providing that I could forgive her for her transgressions.”

  And Telaria, naturally, had. Nermesa knew that the sisters had—to a limited extent—begun speaking to one another again even before this. His supposed death, though, had opened wide the gates between the siblings . . . and now presented Nermesa with a situation which he had not needed.

  “I hesitated, but finally visited her in the city a week ago. She insisted that I join her out on Antonus’ estate and so, with the queen’s permission, we came here three days past.” Telaria smiled bitterly. “And when the baron returned today, he was all sympathy and understanding, as much a brother to me as if of my own blood . . .” Telaria’s eyes turned venomous. “And all the time, he had you a prisoner below, ready to be tortured!”