The Silent Enemy (7 page)

“Which is why we must discover his fate,” Gregorio interjected somewhat bitterly. “Lest he be forced to betray secrets concerning his honored liege.”

Both Nermesa and Halrik nodded their agreement. The Gunderman showed the party where it could stay, swearing also that more accurate maps of the region would be provided to them before they left in the morning.

The next day, though, proved not as obliging as the previous ones. The sky remained dark, and the thick clouds rumbled ominously. A strong wind picked up.

“The price of our olive groves and fertile farmland,” Count Trocero’s nephew stated grudgingly. “Strong rains must come on occasion. Let us pray to Mitra that if that is the case, then it will be a short-lived downpour.”

As promised, Halrik brought them the maps they needed. The Gunderman had wisely placed them in a leather case. Captain Elarius was also on hand to bid them farewell, the Bossonian looking a bit more fit this morning. Nermesa could only assume that Elarius knew that he had not made the best impression the evening before.

With pike-wielding Gundermen lining their path, the knights rode out. Unfortunately, it was barely an hour later that the rain began to come down. There was no preamble; the storm simply struck as if waiting in ambush.

Despite the deluge, the knights pressed on. They paused only when necessary, each time using the opportunity to survey the maps under whatever cover they could find.

“We ride beyond this river here,” Gregorio pointed. “This over here is the start of those hills you see in the distance.”

“We’re nearly there, then?”

“Near enough.”

Nermesa eyed the dark heavens. “May the rain cease soon. I’m beginning to worry that if there
was
anything to find, it might have been washed away by all this.”

The Poitainian had nothing encouraging to say. The party moved on, its members hunkered down within the great travel cloaks draping their armor and surcoats.

Before long, they reached the storm-swollen river. Nermesa eyed the raging body of water with no love; too often in the past he had run afoul of such, and the memories lingered painfully. Yet, despite his trepidations, the bridge Gregorio led them to proved a sound one, if a little slick. One by one, the knights rode across the broad, wooden structure until all were over.

Hiding his relief, Bolontes’ son studied the hills, which were now within reach. Beyond them, some of the blue peaks thrust skyward.

Despite the unfriendly elements, he was able to make out a light here and there in the distance. The ones coming from the mountains he assumed were the protective castles and towers, including that of Prospero’s cousin. The two off in the distance along the flatter landscape, however, made him curious.

“What are those, Gregorio?”

The other peered where Nermesa pointed. “Country estates. That one nearer the range belongs to Lord Eduarco, I think. I spoke with him when last we came here. Dour, short man. The other belongs to a knight who lost his leg in battle, I think. Uncle talked to him. Neither noticed anything.”

“From such a distance, I don’t doubt that.” If they had time, then perhaps they could journey to the two estates, but it was more important now to study the vicinity as thoroughly as possible . . . if the rain would permit.

They made camp near a ridge, the same location, Gregorio informed him, that Count Trocero and he had used on their last expedition. The ridge gave them some protection from the elements. While some of the knights tended to the horses, Nermesa and Gregorio decided on their best course of action.

“It would be best to split up,” suggested Trocero’s nephew. “but you do not know the lay of the land.”

“Give me two men who do, and that’ll suffice. I’d like to see the location where the attack occurred.”

The Poitainian nodded. “We can view that first thing, then split up.”

With that agreed upon, the knights settled down to sleep. Nermesa prayed that Mitra would at least stop the rain long enough for them to finish their task; if there remained any clue that might save Prospero—assuming that he still lived—the searchers would need every assistance possible to find it. The area around them was filled with fresh rock and thick mud, and Nermesa had no doubt that the location Gregorio would show him tomorrow would be much the same.

Yet, still Nermesa and the others would have to look . . . and hope.

 
PERHAPS MITRA HEARD him, for, although the black clouds still blanketed the sky, the rain came to a halt just before dawn. The ground was soaked, of course, but the powerful horses stubbornly trudged their way through, heading for the scene of the attack on Prospero.

“There’s not much left to see,” Gregorio muttered, as they arrived. “The blood’s all but washed away, and the mud’s filled in most of the areas where tracks and imprints were.”

Nermesa had expected it, but was disappointed just the same. “Nevertheless, I’d still like to look around.”

“Of course.”

Dismounting, the Black Dragon studied the spot where his comrade indicated that the ground had been most churned up by the struggle. Despite Gregorio’s words, Nermesa could still see marks in the water and mud. The violence of the horses’ actions during the struggle was evident.

Straightening, he looked back at Gregorio. “I’d like to stay here for a while. You may as well ride on to where you intended.”

“As you like. I’ve decided to leave Cassiun and Arturus with you. They both know the lay of the land well and can tell you anything you need to know.”

“I appreciate that.”

Gregorio tightened his grip on the reins. “We’ll be riding some distance. Best if we just agree to meet back at the ridge at nightfall.”

Finding that agreeable, Nermesa bid the count’s nephew good hunting. Gregorio summoned those men coming with him, then led them away.

Cassiun, a broad-shouldered fighter who stood a head shorter than Nermesa, dismounted to join him. The bearded knight pointed northward. “A little farther that way, there may be some marks remaining from where we think the fight spread.”

Nermesa nodded. “I’ll want to see that, too.”

They were joined in their hunt by Arturus, a gaunt, dark-skinned young man barely old enough to be called a knight. However, Nermesa had seen the man practicing with his massive sword that very morning, and anyone who thought that Arturus might prove an easy target due to his youth would have been fatally wrong.

Cassiun led Nermesa along, describing in detail what Count Trocero believed the course of the struggle. The Poitainian indicated the high hills beyond them as where last it seemed some violent activity had taken place.

“It is believed they caught him between two forces.”

Everything that Cassiun and Gregorio had told him concerning the details convinced Nermesa that those who had attacked Prospero had been highly trained and adaptable fighters. That ruled out most brigands and strengthened the argument that the Zingarans were likely involved.

Feeling acquainted enough with the vicinity, Nermesa decided that his two companions could make better use of their efforts by spreading out. He cautioned them not to step directly on top of any of the visible clues, then divided the region between all three accordingly.

His own interest lay in the hillside mentioned as the likely end of Prospero’s desperate struggle. Cassiun suggested he ride westward, then up a trail that some of the attackers had undoubtedly utilized, but Nermesa wanted to follow Prospero’s flight as much as possible, feeling it might bring some hidden detail to light.

Deciding that it would take too long to forgo his armor, Nermesa chose to risk himself somewhat by climbing fully encumbered. The missing Prospero had done it, he reasoned, and so had his pursuers, who against Poitainian knights in full plate had surely worn some armor of their own, even if perhaps only a breastplate.

“Did anyone else climb as I intend?” he asked Cassiun before heading off toward the hills.

“Only a bit from the top and the bottom. Count Trocero deemed it unnecessary as there was evidence enough that the assailants brought some burden to the base.”

Brought some burden to the base.
No one wanted to admit that what they searched for might simply have been a corpse all along. Yet, if so, why take the body . . . unless they wanted the forces of Poitain busy hunting ghosts while other sinister plots were put in play?

Nermesa shook his head as he started climbing. After spending so much time in the court of King Conan and watching the political games played by the various ambassadors and others, it was too easy to fall prey to believing in plots within plots within plots even without any true evidence to support such.

The recent deluge made his climb more slippery than he had imagined and certainly more troublesome than when Prospero had been forced to ascend. Nermesa had no doubt that more than one of the Poitainian’s foes had paid the price for pursuing him on the hillside. There were signs of recent rockfalls that did not seem to have anything to do with the rain. However, a falling body could easily crack off an outcropping here and there . . .

Cassiun had pointed out a small lip as the area where Count Trocero had estimated that Prospero would have made a stand against enemies above and below. While Nermesa was not so sure the knight had used it, certainly
someone
might have.

It took a bit of manipulation to reach the location in question, and by then Nermesa had cursed himself more than once for having begun the climb so encumbered. He felt as if he carried not one but two full-grown people on his back . . . both of them Black Dragons as well. He took a quick glance up, wondering if it would be better to continue to the top after his inspection.

But as Nermesa’s gaze returned to the small ridge, something on the opposing edge of it caught his attention. It lay wedged in the rocks and glinted slightly even in the gloom.

With great caution, the Aquilonian moved near enough to reach the object. It did not turn out to be a piece of rock crystal, as Nermesa had feared, but a
coin
.

The image of a stern, proud man’s profile had been embossed on one side. Nermesa had no trouble recognizing the face. It was King Conan. Nermesa had found an Aquilonian gold piece. He shrugged off the discovery. While it might have slipped from a pouch worn by Prospero, it was also just as likely that perhaps the Zingarans had carried some for use during their time in Poitain. There was no way of telling.

He decided to hold on to it, just in case. Tightening the grip of his left hand on the hillside, Nermesa fumbled with the right for a pouch in which to put the possible evidence.

The rock upon which his right foot pressed suddenly gave way.

The coin went flying from his hand as he grabbed for anything to keep him from falling to his doom. More rock broke away beneath him, barely giving his left foot any purchase.

Unwilling to risk himself further, Nermesa started climbing. Below, he heard the clatter of loose stone. With an oath to Mitra, the Aquilonian forced himself higher and higher. He tried not to think of the lost gold piece, hoping that either he or one of his companions could retrieve it once Nermesa made it back down.

A drop of water splattered his face, then another, and another. Nermesa pushed himself harder.

A crack of thunder shook the area . . . and the rain came down in earnest.

Gritting his teeth and trying to keep the moisture from his eyes, the Aquilonian pushed on. He had to grapple several times with the rocks, their surfaces already slick.

Thunder roiled again . . . but as it slowly died away, another, harsher sound caught his attention.

The clash of sword against sword.

Nermesa could not twist his gaze down without losing his balance. He had to continue climbing even though every fiber of his being roared for him to see what was happening to Cassiun and Arturus. The top of the hill taunted him, so close and yet not close enough.

And worse, a figure suddenly leaned over the edge, sword in one hand, face obscured by the heavy rain cloak over his head. What little Nermesa could see of the man’s garments made it clear that underneath the cloak was something other than Poitainian plate armor.

Nermesa knew then that he and his comrades had just found Prospero’s assailants.

Or rather . . .
they
had come to hunt for the knights.

5

THE SWORD THRUST down at the hapless knight—then stopped mere inches from his head.

From within the hood came an angry, muffled voice. “No . . . he wants you alive . . . for a time, at least . . .” The sword remained poised where it was, and the villain’s hand dropped toward Nermesa’s nearest. “But give me one excuse, fool, and I’ll—”

The Aquilonian pulled his own hand away from the strong, gloved fingers just before they could seize hold. Risking his balance, the Black Dragon took the other’s wrist. Nermesa pulled with all his might, shifting to the side at the same time.

With a startled grunt, his adversary fell forward. A scream escaped the man’s lips as he tumbled past Nermesa. The Aquilonian briefly had to hang on for dear life as the figure’s flailing limbs battered him hard.

Nermesa had been given no choice but to save himself so. The man’s very words had indicated that even had the knight surrendered, his reprieve would have only been a temporary one. Once his captors had made whatever use they wanted of him, the Aquilonian would have been summarily executed.

Regaining his position, Nermesa continued his ascent. As he pulled himself up, he quickly scanned the immediate vicinity for another foe, but there was no one to be seen. Still, he knew that he had to be cautious; the pouring rain made for limited visibility, which meant that someone could even now be closing on him.

Coughing from effort, Bolontes’ son finally took a moment to peer down. What he saw distressed him further. Cassiun and Arturus had indeed been attacked by other hooded figures. Cassiun lay sprawled like a rag doll over a large rock, his sword on the ground nearby. Arturus, meanwhile, battled three clearly expert swordsmen who came at him from different directions. A fourth assailant lay motionless near the remaining Poitainian’s feet, and another had fallen in a crumpled heap next to the dead Cassiun.