The Silent Enemy (2 page)

While the leader withdrew to find another weapon, three more of his minions came at the senior knight. They struck from his left and his right with a constant and well-coordinated barrage, yet, did not press him as much as Prospero would have supposed.

But if Prospero’s luck seemed good, the same could not be said for those with him. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Sir Oswal, most trusted of his comrades, suddenly caught by a base blow to the back of his neck. With a groan, the Poitainian fell forward. Yet, even in dying, Oswal did as Prospero hoped
he
would should death claim him; the other knight used his fall to thrust the point of his weapon through one of the other assassins, skewering the man and dragging him to the ground with the dying Poitainian.

Even as Sir Oswal fell, Prospero dealt expertly with his own foes. With sweeping swings, he forced the men at each side back. His huge warhorse rose up on its hind legs, kicking out at another animal. The heavy hooves struck a black stallion ridden by one assassin, knocking both man and steed over.

Then, from nowhere, one of those on foot charged up and lanced Prospero’s horse in the ribs. The mighty steed cried out and twisted to the side. Prospero fought to retain both his sword and his balance.

The badly wounded horse broke through the gauntlet of steel. It carried its rider along, heedless of his attempts to regain control. The knight did not fear for himself, but what his loss to the others would mean. With at least one man down, the others would be more harried than ever.

But Prospero’s mount cared not a whit for his concerns. The beast, its side now covered in its own blood, staggered through the hill region. Behind him, the Poitainian heard angry shouts. He had no doubt that pursuit was right behind him.

The horse stumbled badly. Sensing what would happen next, Prospero threw himself from the saddle.

A moment later, the animal collapsed. It tumbled on its side, and had Count Trocero’s man still been astride, he would have lost his leg for certain.

As it was, Prospero landed in an unregal heap a short distance from his dying steed. His sword went flying from his grip. It clattered among the rocks, then vanished down a gap.

Cursing, the harried knight reached for the dagger he always wore in a sheath at his belt. Six of the riders came into sight, followed a moment later by the leader of the murderous band.

“Up there!” snarled the latter. “Around those rocks! Leave him no path out!”

That so many could be spent on him boded ill concerning his comrades. Prospero was a man of with a light heart around his friends but could be terrible and unrelenting around his enemies. These villains had likely slain the others and no doubt meant harm to more than just himself. While he drew a breath, he would not permit that.

As one of the cloaked figures climbed up near him, Prospero threw himself down upon the man. His adversary gaped as the knight filled his view; clad in full armor, Prospero was a stunning missile.

He collided with his attacker, bowling him over like a human battering ram. The cloaked assassin fell back, plummeting off the hillside. Prospero, with expert reflexes long trained to compensate for the heavy plate covering him, snared an outcropping. His legs dangled momentarily before the Poitainian managed to pull himself up again.

But although he had succeeded in slaying the one assailant, there were still far too many, and they learned quickly from the death of their companion. Those directly below halted where they were, keeping out of range of any second leap. The others continued their climb, maneuvering around like hungry spiders toward a trapped, wingless fly.

There remained only the last vestiges of day. Prospero considered his chances in the dark. The moon would be more than half-full. His opponents were clad in garments more suited not only for mobility but for blending into the night. He, on the other hand, would shine like a beacon in his gold-chased suit.

As he considered his best chances, Prospero noted the leader moving up with the rest. Trying to buy time, the Poitainian brandished his dagger toward the figure, then called out, “Who are you? Why are you doing this?”

Although the hood and the shadows of the fading day continued to hide the man’s features, Prospero could not help but sense the grim smile.

“Because it is well past time,” remarked the leader almost matter-of-factly. “Because we will not wait any longer . . .”

“Wait . . . for what?”

“For the passing of Aquilonia.”

There was a clatter of rock from above Prospero’s left. The knight glanced up and saw that somehow his adversaries had managed to get above him. He could only surmise that some had taken a different path from those above, then climbed down.

They had him surrounded.

Prospero edged to his right even though he knew that they expected him to do just that. He gripped the dagger tight, ready to use it on the first viable target. The plate armor would have made it impossible for many men even to attempt to crawl along the high hillside. Even for Prospero, the task proved daunting.

But the king had to be warned.
Conan
had to be warned.

There was another clatter of rock . . . directly above the Poitainian.

Prospero looked up.

Two cloaked figures leapt down on him—

2

NERMESA KLANDES HAD faced savage Picts, enemy soldiers, brigands, magic, and monsters since he had joined the Aquilonian military and, especially, the Black Dragons, the elite unit whose primary mission was the security of King Conan himself. He had struggled through the storm-drenched forests of the Westermarck, swum through the sewers of one of the distant Corinthian city-states, and crossed, by himself, the mountains on the southeastern border of the realm. His body was marked by more scars than there were years in his life, which was only in the latter half of its third decade.

Yet, none of that compared with preparing for marriage.

It had been some time since he had asked Telaria Lenaro, a lady-in-waiting to Queen Zenobia, to be his bride. His parents had very much approved of the match, having known her since childhood. However, that she was the sister of the woman to whom Nermesa had originally been betrothed made for a complicated situation . . . for not only had the knight rejected her, but he had helped bring about the death of the man she had later married, the ambitious and treacherous Baron Antonus Sibelio.

Telaria had been almost a slave to her haughty sister, and it was because of the ill treatment the younger sister had suffered that Nermesa had broken with Orena. Of one of the eldest Houses in all Aquilonia, Orena had taken this as the greatest of affronts to her reputation. She had soon after married the baron, who, unbeknownst to her, had used her as much as she had desired to use him. She it had been who had stirred Antonus into nearly ruining House Klandes’ financial dealings . . . and he it had been who had used his marriage to her to cover his plot to weaken the throne and take down King Conan.

But the baron had perished horribly at the hands of the sorcerer, Set-Anubis, whom he had enslaved. While Nermesa had not physically slain Antonus, it had been because of him that Set-Anubis had finally been able to strike back at his master. Unfortunately, Orena had not seen it so for quite some time, for months blaming Nermesa for yet another stain to her name.

Yet, she was the only close kin that Telaria had and, despite everything, Nermesa’s betrothed sought to mend matters with her sister before the marriage took place.

That process had begun more than a year ago and finally looked to have achieved success. With the aid of her sister’s Gunderman bodyguard, Morannus—a friend also to both Nermesa and Telaria—communication had finally been reestablished after falling apart again following Antonus’s death. It had been difficult going and even the generally staid Morannus had looked relieved when his mistress had given in to her sister’s entreaties.

“I am most loyal to my lady,” the ponytailed, leather-garbed fighter had told Nermesa during their last encounter. “But her obstinacy can sometimes make me yearn for my homeland.”

Gunderland was a hilly region to the north that had been one of the earliest additions to the realm, and its warriors were considered among the most trustworthy. True, Baron Sibelio’s treacherous cohorts had included Morannus’s foul-tempered countryman, Betavio; but as a whole the Gundermen were considered so much a part of Aquilonia that they now made up a great part of its armies. Other than Poitain, their region was known as one of the safest in which to journey.

“I appreciate the effort, believe me,” Nermesa had responded. “Especially since I know I’m a great part of the trouble you had to overcome.”

This had brought a grin to Morannus’s countenance. The square-jawed bodyguard shrugged his broad shoulders, then shook his head, which sent his dark tail swinging back and forth. “I do what I must, Master Nermesa! I want this rift mended, too, for it only complicates things that do not need to be complicated . . .”

Telaria’s words and Morannus’s subtle coaxing finally even enabled Orena Lenaro to accept that Nermesa had been granted half of her late husband’s holdings, including his second house, located in Tarantia. That Nermesa had also been made a baron because of the same incident was still a sensitive subject, but at least, for the most part, Telaria had her sister back.

However, if that one impediment to the marriage seemed to have been overcome, the many originating from Nermesa’s direction had appeared insurmountable. As an officer of the Black Dragons and a favored knight of both General Pallantides—commander of the unit—and the king himself, following his proposal to Telaria, Nermesa had become embroiled in one matter after another for the throne. If the Picts were not testing the western borders, then there were rumors of Nemedian activity in the east. Two nobles had been arrested in the past half year for plotting against the king and been sent to the Iron Tower. Three times, the king had gone on official trips to meet with his counterparts, and Nermesa had accompanied him on each of those journeys. In addition, there were the constant gatherings in Conan’s own court, where countless ambassadors and the like curried favor . . . when they were not trying to go behind the king’s back.

These were just a few of the duties that had fallen to Nermesa. True, there were others who handled similar tasks, but it had eventually become clear to the son of Bolontes that he was constantly given the most complicated ones.

It had been General Pallantides who had finally told him why. With his dark—some said Ophirian—complexion, long black hair, vulpine features, and narrow, knowing brown eyes, the general stood out even among King Conan’s inner circle. Pallantides wore proudly his silver armor with the hissing wyrm of ebony embossed upon the breastplate. A rich, purple cape with silver threading draped over his muscular shoulders nearly to the floor. That the commander of the Black Dragons had a slight limp made some perhaps think he had slowed down, but Nermesa had seen Pallantides in action and, even with the injury—the remnants of a deadlier one earned while fighting to save the king and Aquilonia—the general moved more swiftly than expert soldiers fifteen years younger.

Pallantides had taken him aside little more than a month past—just after Nermesa had returned from the king’s latest trip of state—and had whispered, “His majesty sees great things in you, young Klandes. To be fair, he sees in you an Aquilonian version of himself . . . a man of honor and trust, with a strong, determined sword arm. Whenever he desires someone to act in his name it’s always you who is first mentioned.”

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Say you will not someday hate him for it,” the general went on solemnly. “For it is your life that he chooses to risk.”

Nermesa had not even had to hesitate. “I am a Black Dragon. I swore to serve my monarch and the realm. I’ve faith that King Conan sends me on these missions because he feels it absolutely necessary.”

“Yes, but he also needs to remember that you
are
human, after all. The queen, in point of fact, has reminded him again that there are others in your life besides
him
.” General Pallantides had shaken his head. “You deserve time with them, too.”

Nermesa knew that his superior had mostly been speaking of Telaria. Still, despite Queen Zenobia’s words to her husband, there came yet more missions that only Nermesa could seem to handle.

Now at last, however, Nermesa had been granted a leave from his duties. In fact, King Conan had all but ordered him to put his personal life back in order once he completed one last simple mission. Conan had papers that needed to reach Count Trocero secretly. Their contents were not revealed even to Nermesa, but their importance was emphasized. They could not be entrusted to a normal courier. The king needed their bearer to be someone he trusted utterly not only to deliver them, but to return with equally important answers from the lord of Poitain.

King Conan was a mountain of a man, a former mercenary and, if rumors held true, freebooter and thief. Born in the cold climes of Cimmeria to the far north, he was what many of the elder families of Aquilonia termed a “barbarian.” Yet he had proven a more caring, more thoughtful monarch than many of the blue-blooded ones of the past, especially the very despot that he had overthrown, Namedides.

“I swear by Crom,” the dour giant had rumbled after he had explained the knight’s mission, “that you’ll be granted the time you need once
this
is done. No more tasks, no more long journeys.” The man who had likely traveled more of the known world than most had shrugged his massive shoulders. He eyed Nermesa from under his square-cut, black mane. “There comes a time when that must end and one should stay put and make a new life for himself. I
know
.”

And so, with the promise of finally being able to arrange matters for Telaria and himself, the baron, his heart lighter, had bowed to his liege and hurried off.