The Silent Enemy (20 page)

“Yes, but not far. The memories of Venarium remain strong. I cannot imagine even this Wulfrim risking himself too deep in the country of their mortal enemies.”

Darkness gathered as the pair plunged into the fringes of Cimmeria. Prospero was certain that he knew exactly where the two Gundermen would have to cross between the highest hills. The traitors could not afford to ride too far north for another reason that became apparent just before nightfall. Southernmost Cimmeria might still be some distance from the mountains, but the hills made the region nearly untra-versable save by the most patient and skillful explorer.

“You see those foul hills yonder?” asked Prospero. “I call them Crom’s Teeth, so pointed are they. Fortunately, I do not think our friends will ride that far.”

Just as the last bit of day faded, the Poitainian indicated that they were near. Both he and Nermesa dismounted and left their horses in a secure location. The wind had picked up, lessening visibility greatly, but Prospero pointed at what was apparently the trail.

“We’ll see them long before they can possibly see us, Nermesa. Be prepared. We should be able to fall upon them without warning.”

The two waited. Although the night was starless, the snow made anything that passed over it stand out. Two riders and their steeds would be very visible.

Time passed. Nermesa hid his anxiousness. It was possible that Prospero was wrong, that the Gundermen knew some other, secretive route to take to where they were hiding . . .

But no. A horse’s snort echoed through the area, and just a minute later a figure rode slowly into sight. He was followed by a second horseman just moments later.

“When they are below us,” whispered Prospero.

The two Gundermen were talking, and although their words could not be made out, Nermesa thought that they spoke rather loudly for two men trying not to be discovered.

An ill feeling spread through his stomach.

“Prospero—” he began.

But with their targets so close, the Poitainian was starting to rise. As it was, he did not apparently hear what his companion suddenly did . . . the brief crunch of snow from their left.

“Look out!” Nermesa shouted.

The cloaked figures came at them not just from that direction, but also the right. At least eight total that the Aquilonian counted, not including Wulfrim and the other rider.

The knights had grown overconfident, he realized, certain that they could keep from the reach of Arumus’s men after the battle with the other riders the previous day. Wulfrim must have assumed that Nermesa was likely one of the two, and perhaps the Gunderman even suspected Prospero of being the other. Whatever the case, Wulfrim had obviously been certain that he was a prime target and so had set about formulating this trap.

And Nermesa and Prospero had walked into it like two untrained squires, not experienced fighters long in the service of the king.

Now that mattered little, for their focus had to be on survival, not only for themselves but so that they might yet keep their liege from being assassinated.

Despite having been focused on the riders below, Prospero spun around to face the first of their adversaries as if expecting him all along. The Poitainian met the other’s blade, striking with such force that he shoved the Gunderman’s sword arm to the ground. The knight then kicked his foe in the chin with his knee, sending the stunned Gunderman sprawling backward.

At the same time, Nermesa plunged into a struggle with two fighters, quickly slicing one in the hand, then forcing the second back on the same swing. As the wounded Gunderman backed away, the Black Dragon parried a counterattack by the remaining fighter, then drove his blade through the man’s gullet.

“Alive!” snapped a voice the Aquilonian recognized as Wulfrim’s. “I want that one alive!”

Unable to see which of the two defenders the lead Gunderman meant and not willing to be captured, anyway, Nermesa fought with all his might. Two more Gundermen came at him while the third bound his hand in preparation of returning to the fray.

Out of the corner of his eye, Nermesa saw Prospero deal a death blow to another foe. Unfortunately, in addition to the two still fighting him, a third now climbed up from the Poitainian’s side. With three against one, Prospero was pushed farther back . . . toward what Nermesa knew to be a precipice. Once there, Prospero would be trapped. The Gundermen would wait for exhaustion to cause him to make a mistake, then they would capture or slay the legendary knight.

Lunging, Nermesa momentarily sent his foes scattering. He immediately turned to give Prospero a hand.

But, to his misfortune, his foot slipped on the slick snow. Unable to stop himself, Nermesa rolled past both his comrade and the startled Gundermen. He heard a shout, but its meaning was lost as he continued to tumble away. It was all he could do to keep his grip on his weapon. Nermesa knew that if he lost the sword, there would be no hope for either him or Prospero.

Farther and farther he plunged, vaguely aware that he slipped deeper into Cimmeria in the process. Nermesa continued to hear shouts, but the sounds of battle—the sounds that would have told him that Prospero still had hope—the hapless Aquilonian could no longer make out.

Then, his rolling abruptly ceased in a manner unexpected. The snow beneath him gave way and Nermesa found himself half-dangling over a dark gap.

Almost immediately, a figure stepped up in front of him. Nermesa glanced up at the silhouetted form of one of the Gundermen.

The cloaked fighter raised his weapon high. He did not appear to have any intention of taking Nermesa alive. Whether or not that meant that Prospero had been captured, the Aquilonian could not say. It was just as possible that the Gunderman’s bloodlust had gotten the better of his reason.

At that moment, a monstrous howl shook the area.

The Gunderman let out a curse and turned. As he did, he took one step closer to a struggling Nermesa—

And lost his own footing.

The Black Dragon could only stare in dismay as the flailing Gunderman filled his view. The two adversaries collided.

Nermesa lost his grip.

He and the Gunderman fell into the dark abyss.

12

NERMESA’S FOE GRABBED hold of him as the two plummeted. They twisted around in midair, still struggling. Both men lost their weapons, not that such a thing was of any import at that moment.

Without warning, they struck the bottom. While the hole had been mercifully shallower than Nermesa had expected, the collision still sent shock waves through his body. He let out a painful grunt as he bounced against an icy wall. That his foe uttered an equally mournful cry did nothing to reassure the Aquilonian.

Both men lay in the darkness, unmoving. Nermesa was conscious, but his body refused to obey his mind, which screamed that at any moment either the man beside him or his cohorts might attack. Yet, try as he might, Bolontes’ son could not rise.

Voices suddenly caught his attention. One of them, Nermesa recognized with loathing as Wulfrim’s.

“—must be where they vanished. Igrim was with him?”

“Aye,” added another voice. “Saw them both slip down.”

There was a flicker of light from above, then, Wulfrim’s voice again. “I see nothing.” A pause. “Igrim!”

There was no response from the prone figure next to Nermesa.

After another pause, Wulfrim growled, “Igrim’s paid the sacrifice! Let the Brotherhood of Bori always remember him, just as it always will the two who perished against the Cimmerian scum we ran into on our way here.”

“Filthy barbarian!” spat a third. “Danis was my
cousin
!”

“
Fret not, Vulpion. The gut wound will have done its work by now. Danis is avenged.”

“Would’ve liked to have seen his still corpse, Wulfrim. Just for pleasure . . .”

“What about the Aquilonian?” asked the second voice, sounding impatient to be away. “He should be our only concern!”

Wulfrim snorted. “What do you think? As dead as Igrim. Unless you’d like to climb down there just to look, we’ll leave his carcass for the snow ghost. He likes his meat fresh.” The lead Gunderman’s voice grew farther away. “We go on. The cause goes on.”

Others spoke, but their words were lost. Nermesa slowly felt life return to his limbs, but it took several minutes before he could even push himself to a sitting position. By then, it had long grown silent above.

He glanced back at Igrim’s body, but it still lay motionless. The knight turned his attention to locating his sword while he considered what Wulfrim had said. It sounded as if he had not really cared whether Nermesa lived, which made the Aquilonian believe that the villains had captured Prospero after all. Nermesa silently cursed the turn of events. Once more, he had failed utterly.

It was with some slight relief that Nermesa found his sword. As he gripped it, he remembered again how it had been made specifically for him at the command of King Conan. That memory, in turn, stirred him to action. He was alive, albeit bruised and in a cold, unforgiving land. There was still hope.

Peering around, Nermesa discovered that what he had thought a hole was, in fact, a cave of sorts. He studied the gap above and decided that its walls were too treacherous to climb. In the hope of finding another way out, the Black Dragon started down the passage—then halted when he recalled the Gunderman with him.

Nermesa located Igrim’s sword and thrust it into his belt. An extra weapon might come in handy. He checked his former foe out next and discovered that, although Igrim bled in several places, including his forehead, the man was still alive. While it felt dishonorable to leave even an enemy in such condition, Nermesa reminded himself of just what Igrim had planned. The Aquilonian silently swore that if he made it to Heinard, he would have someone sent to see if Igrim still lived.

There was no light in the passage, but Nermesa’s eyesight gradually adjusted enough to allow him at least to make out vague details. The cave was narrow, but it seemed at least to rise, which he felt increased his chances of finding an opening. Had it sunk down into the cold earth, very likely it would have dead-ended either at rock or some underground pool.

All trace of light faded from behind him. Nermesa felt along the walls, which were slick with ice. Now and then, he tapped with the sword, cautiously seeking for obstructions and hidden crevices.

It was several minutes later that he first felt the slight breeze. Nermesa hesitated even to believe in it until a better gust briefly caressed his face. Some sort of opening lay ahead, but whether it was large enough for him to squeeze through, he could only pray.

Then an odor touched his nostrils, an odor with which Nermesa had become all too familiar over the past few years. It was faint and mixed with a musky smell, but still unmistakable.

Something dead lay farther on. Had it been outside, where the temperature was even colder, Nermesa would have smelled nothing. Here, where it was just at the freezing point, some decay was still able to take place, albeit slowly, of course.

Nermesa held the sword before him. There were likely wolves in the region, even bears or mountain lions, perhaps.

He suddenly remembered something Wulfrim had mentioned.

Something about . . . a “snow ghost”?

There was a faint hint of light ahead. Every muscle in the Aquilonian’s body went taut. He wanted to rush toward that light, toward escape from the cave; but the odor of death and decay had grown even stronger.

There was just enough light to reveal another chamber ahead. The floor had an odd, terribly uneven appearance to it. Nermesa gingerly put a foot forward, seeking better ground.

His boot kicked against what he thought was an outgrowth of the floor.

The outgrowth rolled away with a clatter, colliding with other shapes that also shifted.

With a cold chill not born of the weather enshrouding him, Nermesa cautiously bent down to retrieve one of the rounded objects.

It was a skull . . . a human one.

The right side had been shattered by some terrible force, and the fingers with which Nermesa held the skull grazed peculiar scratches on the other side. The knight gingerly set down the broken bone, eyeing again the other dark shapes on the ground. He was in some beast’s lair, a beast that seemed to favor human flesh, although Nermesa suspected that he would find the remains of animals as well.

Nermesa looked around. Such a predator had to be fairly large. That meant there had to be an entrance big enough for the human to slip through.

He moved along through the lair, trying to kick about as little refuse as possible. Nermesa recalled the howl and wondered what sort of creature would make such a bloodcurdling noise. At the same time, he hoped that he would never have to find out.

The cave proved far more extensive than Nermesa had first imagined. Even after several minutes, he had yet to see anything resembling a way out. However, the breeze had picked up, giving the knight hope that somewhere not too far ahead he would finally reach freedom.

Of course, then it would be a matter of not only of escaping Cimmeria, but managing to sneak past Arumus’s castle and reaching the Aquilonian outpost in Heinard in one piece . . . and without a horse.

More bone clattered on the icy floor . . . but from
behind
Nermesa.

He spun around immediately, but it was still too late. Something struck Nermesa hard on the shoulder, sending him sprawling amid the carnage. As he hit the floor, the Aquilonian fully expected claws and fangs to rip him to shreds.

But what he could vaguely make out standing over him seemed too small for the terrible beast that made its lair here. Instead, it was the very familiar silhouette of a man, and Nermesa could think of only one other person who would be here. Clearly, the Gunderman, Igrim, had recovered better than the Aquilonian had expected. Perhaps Nermesa’s foe had even been partly pretending to be so injured just so that he could gain this opportunity.