The Silent Enemy (14 page)

 
WHEN HE AWOKE, it was to find that not only had daylight come, but the steed had carried him farther than he had imagined possible. A short distance behind him lay the edge of the blue mountains and around him the hill country that preceded the flatter lands of Aquilonia. At present, the horse, clearly worn, sipped at a stream whose waters enticed the knight to dismount immediately and partake of the cool and much-needed liquid.

As he drank, Nermesa’s head cleared and with it came a rush of fury at himself for his failure to stay alert. That he had been through so much before attempting this chase did not mollify him in the least. The villains he pursued spoke of nothing less than the assassination of the man whom Nermesa had sworn an oath—and his life—to protect.

Yet even after sleeping in the saddle, the Aquilonian had to admit that he was still exhausted. More to the point, he had surely lost the trail. His best hope now was to return as quickly as he could to Tarantia and warn King Conan and General Pallantides of the sinister plan.

Dejected, Nermesa took his fill of water and went in search of food. Fortunately, the stream was large enough to support small fish who seemed ignorant of danger. Using just his hands, the knight caught two, then made a small fire. The meal was enough to satisfy him, and, before he knew it, Nermesa fell asleep against an oak.

When he awoke, it was night again, and the fire had long died. The stars were out, which enabled Nermesa to calculate the general direction of Tarantia. With no other recourse, the Black Dragon mounted. The sooner he reached home, the better. He could send back word to Poitain concerning his situation once he reached a garrison equipped with messenger birds, at the same time sending another missive giving General Pallantides advance word on what he had discovered.

The hills required his path to be a serpentine one, often sending him in the opposite direction to that which he wanted to travel. Still, gradually Nermesa felt as if he made progress. He grew confident that soon he would be out in more open landscape. Once there, the knight could greatly increase his pace.

But as he finally neared the plains, he noted the smell of smoke and, after a moment, spotted a tiny glimmer of fire in the distance. Immediately, Nermesa pulled tight on the reins. It was possible that all he saw was the campfire of some hunters or pilgrims, and yet . . .

Dismounting, he led the horse on for as long as he safely could, then tied the reins to a tree trunk. Nermesa quietly drew his sword before moving on to the source of the fire.

He heard low muttering as he neared. The immediate area was more thinly wooded, forcing him to step cautiously for fear of being noticed despite the night.

There were two figures hunched near the tiny campfire. Also by the flames were the remnants of what looked to be a rabbit. At first, Nermesa could not make out the men’s faces, but then one of the figures shifted slightly, and the Aquilonian stared directly at Wulfrim.

There was a darkness on the Gunderman’s countenance that might have been due to the shadows but, Nermesa realized, was more likely a bruise left over from when the knight had struck him. As Nermesa watched, Wulfrim twice rubbed the area lightly. The Gunderman looked very annoyed as he did so.

While Mitra surely had to have been with him for Nermesa to have still found his quarry, credit probably was also due the horse he had taken from Braggi. The animal had very likely followed the scent of its fellows even after the knight had fallen unconscious. In truth, Nermesa was fortunate that the beast had tired when it had; otherwise, it might have even walked into the camp with its slumbering burden. Surely that would have been a dark jest that Wulfrim would have enjoyed, to Nermesa’s fatal regret.

The two figures continued their conversation. Wanting to hear more, Nermesa crept around to a better vantage point. As he did, the pair’s words gradually became clearer.

“—warned him that the chances were too great, but he wanted this Aquilonian as much as he did the Poitainian!” Wulfrim snapped.

The other Gunderman nodded. “Will it still go on? Are the Nemedians stirred?”

Lord Eduarco’s bodyguard chuckled darkly. “Didn’t take much to bait their king! He’d like nothing better than to ride over Tarantia again . . .”

Nermesa started. What
was
he hearing? Now Nemedia was involved somehow? The scope of the plot initially stunned him, but then Nermesa realized that it made absolute sense, for anyone seeking the throne would need Nemedia’s aid in holding it. Even then, such a ploy would risk turning Aquilonia into the other kingdom’s puppet, as had almost been its fate once before.

Worse, with Nemedia’s own monarch facing shaky support from his people, stretching its might over Aquilonia might prove equally fatal for him. If both realms collapsed, it spelled disaster for the entire civilized world.

But ambition too often clouded the mind to such dangers. That left it up to those like Nermesa to do what they could to prevent such a catastrophe from occurring.

And then Wulfrim’s companion said something that made Nermesa straighten. “What about the Poitainian knight?”

The lead Gunderman considered. “Once we return home, the great Prospero can be dealt with—”

As Nermesa leaned closer, hoping for some further clue to the Poitainian, he heard a rustle of leaves from behind him that did not seem merely the work of some small forest creature. His eyes shifted to the campfire and the two figures.

Two figures with
three
tethered horses nearby.

Nermesa had forgotten that there had been more than just Wulfrim and his companion.

He turned just as a figure leapt out of the dark at him. The Aquilonian’s blade clanged loud as it met that of his attacker, the third Gunderman.

From the campsite came exclamations. Nermesa cursed, hoping that he had not just walked into a trap of his own making.

The Gunderman against whom he fought was good, but not exceptional. The chief threat to Nermesa was the fact that the longer their duel, the more likely that one or both of the other villains would join. Nermesa countered a strike by the shadowed figure, then lunged, hoping to drive the man off.

His foe stepped back, colliding with a tree. Nermesa tried to finish him off, but the Gunderman twisted to the side, and the blade instead dug into the bark.

Thrashing erupted from the knight’s other side. Nermesa pulled away from the one foe just as another came at him. Deflecting a blow, Nermesa kicked at the newcomer.

No sooner had he done so than his first opponent returned. Nermesa swung at both men, parrying attacks from each.

The second Gunderman grew too eager. He lunged at Nermesa, who twisted aside. As his adversary fell forward, Nermesa kneed him in the chin, sending the villain sprawling.

A grunt escaped the remaining figure. He slashed twice at the Aquilonian, only to strike armor both times. Nermesa shoved the other’s blade up, then drove the point of his own through the Gunderman.

As that enemy dropped, Nermesa spun around, certain that the third of the party would attack. When he saw nothing, he bent down to seize the groggy survivor by the collar and pull him up.

“Where are they keeping Sir Prospero?” he demanded of the dazed Gunderman. “Who is behind this plot? Who seeks the throne of Aquilonia?”

His prisoner laughed. “No-no one—”

At that moment, there was a wild shout, and out of the darkness a figure on horseback crashed into the pair. Nermesa threw himself aside just in time to avoid behind gutted by a long blade. However, his captive proved not so fortunate. The sword that had barely missed the Aquilonian came around without warning and severed the head of Nermesa’s foe.

The Gunderman’s torso shook, then fell into a shocked Nermesa’s arms. The knight expected the rider to return for a second attempt, but the clatter of hooves faded in the distance.

Shoving aside the corpse, the Black Dragon leapt into the campsite. Looking around, Nermesa cursed. All three horses were gone. Wulfrim, the figure who had nearly ridden him down in his escape, had wanted to ensure that the knight could not readily follow. No doubt the lead Gunderman had decided that he could not take the chance of facing Nermesa here, not after seeing both of his companions already fail. After missing with his blade, he had also likely chosen to murder his remaining comrade rather than risk Nermesa’s learning the full truth concerning their plot.

Unable to locate either of the other two beasts, Nermesa rushed back to where his own waited. Wulfrim already had too much of a head start, but Nermesa could do nothing but follow no matter where the trail led.

And from what he recalled of the brief conversation, that trail led far, indeed. Wulfrim had talked of “home” as their destination, and the manner in which he had framed it made the Aquilonian fear that the man had meant the home of
all
his kind.

Wulfrim headed for Gunderland.

It made absolute sense for Nermesa to resume his journey to Tarantia, but there was another factor that caused him to continue after Wulfrim. The Gunderman had also spoken of Prospero as if the Poitainian still lived and was held captive in the northern province. However, if that was the case, Wulfrim’s return home would mean the end of the prisoner, for the conspirators would see that his use had ended.

So, if Nermesa rode to Tarantia, he would be as good as guaranteeing the legendary knight’s death.

The Black Dragon urged his steed to a swifter pace. He could not allow that. If they still kept Prospero alive, then the plot had not yet reached fruition. Therefore, Nermesa surmised, if he reached Prospero in time and freed him, the traitors’ plan would collapse, and King Conan would be safe.

Nermesa knew that he talked himself into riding north, that his thinking was not as solid as he pretended. Still, he rode, aware that his liege would have chosen the same course, for Conan never left a comrade to perish. The king valued his friends above himself, a rare attitude, especially in a monarch.

Praying to Mitra that he was not making a mistake whose repercussions would be felt all the way to the palace itself, the Aquilonian pushed on.

Gunderland awaited him.

9

NO GREAT CITY greeted Nermesa as he entered the border into Gunderland many days later. The only indication that he was in the northern realm was a stone obelisk roughly twice as tall as he and weathered by many generations of wind and rain that in Aquilonian and another language, which he did not recognize, announced that this was indeed Wulfrim’s homeland. The rivers and plains through which Nermesa had journeyed now gave way again to steep hills and a chillier climate than that to which he was accustomed. The trees were of hardier breeds and often with small, jagged needles rather than leaves. Gray clouds filled the sky with what he suspected was a permanent overcast.

It was a somewhat bleak, but habitable land, the last place before dank, foreboding Cimmeria itself. Several days’ ride to the west and southwest of Nermesa’s present location lay the uppermost regions of the Bossonian Marches, of which Nermesa was more familiar due to his time serving in the Westermarck. Nermesa wondered how the area fared and recalled the incidents there with some regret. He hoped that the bearded, red-haired knight, Konstantin, still lived. The man had been a good comrade and one of the few there whom Nermesa had known who had survived the carnage wrought by the Picts.

Mount Golamira, a giant among the known peaks of the world, also lay near, but the trail that the Aquilonian had picked up kept well to the east of it. To Nermesa, that meant that there was probably a military outpost in that vicinity, for over the course of his pursuit of the Gunderman, the knight had noted how Wulfrim avoided any place before his homeland where a sizable population existed. Perhaps it was because he feared that Nermesa still followed and that the Black Dragon would be able to summon reinforcements . . . or perhaps the villain had simply been cautious. Whatever the case, Wulfrim’s trail had ensured that Nermesa had seen very little of civilization save from a long way off.

The closest he had even come to a city had been Galparan, by the Shirki River; but even then all that Nermesa had seen were the faraway wall and some of the higher watch towers. There had been wagons on the horizon, but to have veered off would have meant letting any tracks be blown away by the wind or covered over by other prints.

Nermesa rubbed his chin, now covered by a slight beard. He could worry about such idle pleasures as shaving when he returned to Tarantia . . . if he was fortunate enough to do so. He would not slow down, not after coming so far.

In keeping with his previous preferences, Wulfrim had chosen a desolate area through which to enter his homeland. For what remained of the cloud-enshrouded day, Nermesa saw no sign of civilization save a tiny, crumbling structure that he guessed had once been a place of worship. The squat figure barely visible on the cracked, overgrown arch looked to be the god, Bori. The cracks made it appear that Bori frowned much at his own sorry state, something with which Nermesa could sympathize.

Just before dark, the knight studied the tracks he had been following. The telltale cleft in one shoe indicated that it was still Wulfrim he followed and not some older tracks. The Gunderman had not done much to cover his path, possibly because he did not want to risk Nermesa’s catching up to him in the meantime. Either that, or the quarry was setting some trap for the pursuer.

Satisfied that he was still hot on the other’s trail, Nermesa stopped for the night. The cooler air forced him to build a fire, which he tried to hide from possible view by setting it up behind a rise. Nermesa had no cloak and so had to content himself with pulling his limbs as close to him as possible. His breath came out in white puffs even near the flames.

Morning proved as gray as the evening before. Nermesa’s thoughts again drifted beyond Gunderland to that foreboding place even farther north, Cimmeria. Curiously, for all he thought Cimmeria must be—a harsh land where survival was a day-to-day endeavor—he suddenly recalled how King Conan had at times spoken of it almost . . . wistfully. It had been the place of his birth, the place that had most shaped him.