The Silent Enemy Page 14

  The Aquilonian could no longer remain idle. He urged his mount forward, drawing his sword at the same time. It was a good thing, too, for just then, another pair of riders materialized out of the darkness. They took one look at Prospero and eagerly rode forward.

  But before they could reach him, Nermesa cut them off. His horse all but rammed the nearest, throwing that Gunderman’s mount into his companion’s. The two forgot all about Prospero as they turned to deal with the new threat.

  As Nermesa parried an attack by one, he heard a cry from the direction of his companion. Out of the corner of his eye, the Aquilonian saw a Gunderman tumble back off his mount.

  From there on, the Black Dragon concentrated only on his own struggle. He deflected the sword of his foremost adversary and ran the man through just as the second thrust from the other direction. Nermesa swore as the Gunderman’s blade creased the side of his sword hand. The wound was very shallow but nearly caused the knight to drop his own weapon.

  Using his foot to push away the mount of the dead man, Nermesa twisted in the saddle and swung at his other foe. The Gunderman managed to counter his attack, but did not realize that it was only a feint. Nermesa’s blade suddenly arced underneath, then came up. He stabbed the Gunderman deep near the shoulder.

  The Gunderman dropped forward. Nermesa cautiously prodded him with the sword. The rider slipped off the saddle and landed in a heap on the snowy earth.

  Taking a deep breath, Nermesa turned to aid Prospero . . . only to find the Poitainian leaning back in the saddle and cheerfully watching the battle.

  “Well done! Could not have handled them better myself, and that is much coming from me!” He chuckled. “Masterful stroke that at the end. I’ll have to remember it the next time we end up fighting one another.”

  Glancing past him, Nermesa saw that all of Prospero’s opponents were also dead. It should not have been surprising, considering the other knight’s tremendous reputation.

  “I did tell you to wait for me,” commented Prospero as he wiped off his blade. “Still, five would have taken me a bit longer and we are in a hurry.”

  Uncertain as to whether his companion was jesting or not, Nermesa replied, “Yes, I knew we couldn’t delay.”

  Prospero chuckled again. Sheathing his sword, he kicked his mount lightly in the flanks. “Let’s be on our way, then. When they find this lot, it will only make them more eager to hunt us down.”

  “Do they already know it’s you out here?”

  “Doubtful. I am hoping that they may think this the work of Cimmerian raiders. If we could have avoided it, I would have, but such is fate . . .”

  With the Poitainian again taking the lead, the duo moved farther northward. As they did, Nermesa noted how they continued to climb higher. The snow became thicker.

  “Is it always like this?” he finally asked.

  “Don’t know. Never been to Gunderland before, either. Was never a need. Always a safe place save for the occasional raid out of Cimmeria, and those have been very limited since Conan became king.”

  Prospero spoke of their monarch with a familiarity that no one else could match. Even General Pallantides, who probably knew the king as well as Prospero, treated Conan with the reverence afforded his august station. The Poitainian, on the other hand, talked as if he and the king were two old mercenaries sharing an ale in a tavern before going wenching. It hardly seemed appropriate for either man, and yet, to Nermesa’s knowledge, no one had ever corrected Prospero.

  They reached the top of another hill. Peering over his shoulder, Nermesa saw that the castle was now some distance behind them. To their right and much farther away stood a similar edifice.

  “Is that controlled by Arumus, too?” he asked.

  “No, but I dared not approach them yet. Have not had the opportunity to discover how widespread the treachery is.” The other knight leaned forward. “Ah. We’re nearly there.”

  Nermesa studied the landscape ahead. Dark silhouettes were what he mostly saw, but there was a sense of something imposing on the horizon.

  “You are looking at Cimmeria,” Prospero muttered, his tone suddenly subdued. “There are mountains there that even the king speaks of in utter respect. It is a harsh land ruled by a harsh god, Crom. He gives no quarter and expects his people to take care of themselves . . .”

  “You speak of Crom as if he were as real as Mitra.”

  “In Cimmeria, I think that the case.”

  Prospero said no more on the subject, but for the rest of the journey Nermesa found himself taking surreptitious glances around. They were not just for any hint of pursuers, but also because he more and more felt as if the two of them were not alone . . . and that it was King Conan’s dour deity, Crom, who watched despite the fact that they had not quite set foot in his domain.

  “Down here,” Prospero finally said, pointing at a treacherous-looking gully. Around them, the hills threatened to become peaks, so massive were they.

  With some cautious guidance of their mounts, they descended. Their destination finally came into sight. A narrow cave, one that could hardly be seen from above.

  “Came upon it by accident,” the Poitainian commented.

  “Was trying to slip away from an overzealous patrol. Did not want to leave a trail of bodies, and I dared not reveal myself yet to the local Aquilonian garrison.”

  He explained no further, obviously wanting them to enter first. The opening was just wide enough to admit the horses.

  “Wait here,” Prospero commanded. He vanished into the darkness. There was a bit of clinking, then a flash of light. A moment later, Prospero returned bearing a lit oil lamp. “A gift from Melia,” he explained with a slightly roguish smile.

  As the lamp illuminated their surroundings, Nermesa gasped. There were drawings on the walls, primitive yet elaborate sketches of beasts and what seemed to be men. Some of the animals were like none that the Aquilonian had ever seen, and even the hunters appeared not entirely human but rather beastlike.

  “What is this?” he finally asked his comrade.

  “An old place,” was all Prospero would answer.

  To Nermesa’s surprise, Prospero guided him and the horses to an opening some distance in. A miniature field of grass lay without, the high blades half-covered with snow.

  “There is heat below this place, either an old spring or something volcanic that half slumbers. Whatever the case, this area stays warm enough and rich enough for plant life. The horses will stay here. They can wander inside when they’ve had their fill of grass.”

  “I have some rations.”

  “Good. Bring them inside. We can add them to what I have.” Prospero exhaled, the first indication that he, like Nermesa, was exhausted. “You no doubt have many questions for me, my friend, just as I have for you. However, I think it best that we eat our fill, then get rest as quickly as possible. Agreed?”

  As much as Nermesa would have liked to hear Prospero’s tale, he could already feel exhaustion taking control. “Agreed.”

  “Capital! A fine meal, a good bed . . .” The mirth the Poitainian sought to radiate was clearly forced, but neither man acknowledged that fact. “And tomorrow . . . and tomorrow we shall see to saving Aquilonia, eh?”

  11

  NERMESA WANDERED ALONG a gray, desolate landscape. Around him, he could vaguely make out what seemed endless mountains, yet, the area through which he walked seemed itself devoid of feature. The ground crunched as if covered in hardened snow, but whenever the knight looked down, he saw not even the hint of a footprint.

  The air was chill, so much so that the travel cloak did little to lessen the bite no matter how tightly he wrapped it around himself. The wind snapped at him, and its howl reminded the Aquilonian of hungry wolves.

  The Black Dragon kept his sword at the ready, though no foe could be seen. Yet he was certain that something drew near, something ominous.

  Then, one of the mountains seemed to detach itself from the rest. It lumbered forward, grow
ing and growing as it closed on him. Its shape changed, coalesced. It was now a beast, a pachyderm, but of monumental proportions and slightly differing appearance. It had sharp tusks that curved inward and were at least as long as the human. The prehensile trunk also stretched longer than Nermesa. The ghostly giant raised it and let out a trumpeting sound. Unlike the animals with which Nermesa was familiar, this one had a thick coat as befit a dweller of such an icy realm.

  Each time one of its huge, barrel-like feet struck the ground, it did so with an echo of thunder. Nermesa backed away, but somehow the distance between himself and the creature shrank, not grew. He brandished his sword at the beast, already aware that it would have little effect against such a titan.

  Then, behind the creature came another . . . and another . . . and another. The mountains became a herd of giants, each one lumbering relentlessly toward the tiny figure. All had eyes of white, with no pupils, yet, somehow the Aquilonian knew that the orbs stared directly at him.

  Nermesa shouted at the furred behemoths, trying to ward them off. Yet still they marched on, closing the gap.

  And then, as the foremost one towered over Nermesa, he saw that now a rider sat upon it. Not one of the beastmen from the cave drawings, but a grim-faced warrior with pale skin and dark hair whose visage, if shorn of its long, gray beard, would remind the Aquilonian of his king. The warrior was clad in an archaic breastplate upon which was embossed a wolf, and his helmet had high, strong horns that jutted upward.

  The huge animal finally reached Nermesa. The rider leaned down and pointed at the Aquilonian—

  And, at that moment, Prospero’s voice filled Nermesa’s head, the Poitainian calling his name time and time again.

  Nermesa blinked. He lay once more in the cave, his cloak and a blanket given him by his companion wrapped around him like a shroud. Prospero leaned over him, one hand on Nermesa’s shoulder. The other knight eyed the Black Dragon cautiously.

  “You dreamed, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  Prospero nodded. “Of creatures such as portrayed on these walls?”

  Just above where the Aquilonian lay was, in fact, one of the giant beasts from which he had been fleeing. “Yes. I was in a gray land—”

  “A cold place with vaguely seen peaks and ghostly shadows. An endless land that felt of old death and ancient spirits.”

  “But how did you—”

  The Poitainian gestured at the walls. “Every night, I dream about it also. Usually a different creature. They march and march, then they fade away. At first, I thought I would be trampled or eaten, but each time they reached me, they would howl or trumpet or growl, then vanish. The same thing, no matter what the beast.”

  “What are they?”

  “I believe them the spirits of the creatures hunted by those who lived here. I believe the drawings summon those spirits back.”

  Nermesa tried to digest this suggestion. He had, since serving King Conan, come across other unsettling events. “And the warrior?”

  Now, Prospero looked puzzled. “What warrior?”

  Nermesa described the figure as best the fading memory of the dream allowed.

  “And you say that he reminded you of Conan . . .” The other knight considered. “I would almost dare say that you dreamed of old Crom himself, my friend!”

  “Crom? But why?”

  “It could be simply nothing more then that we talked of him last night.” Prospero glanced around. “Of course, in this place, it might mean more. I’ve seen some markings that hint that this region once belonged to Cimmeria, albeit long, long ago. Maybe Crom was just staking his claim again to the first Aquilonian who’s crossed his path.”

  Trying not to think of it anymore, Nermesa looked past his companion. There was a hint of light beyond Prospero. “Is it morning already?”

  “As such passes around here. The thick clouds are not permitting much day right now.”

  He helped Nermesa up, the Black Dragon discovering his body stiff and sore from sleeping on the cave floor. As he straightened, Bolontes’ son saw that Prospero already had a small fire going.

  “Shall we dine?” mocked the Poitainian.

  As they gathered together their rations, Nermesa asked, “Are these also from Dario’s daughter?”

  “Her . . . and a couple of other dear acquaintances.” Prospero bit into some jerky. “Now, tell me your tale, then I shall fill you in with mine.”

  Nermesa immediately obeyed, going through the details of his journey to Poitain on other matters, the discovery of what had occurred, and the hunt that followed. Prospero listened closely, nodding grimly when Nermesa talked of Count Trocero’s fears concerning his commanding knight and also when the Aquilonian described Lord Eduarco and Lady Jenoa’s duplicity.

  “A demon of a woman,” he remarked to Nermesa. “Fascinating as a viper. I once made her acquaintance at a party, where she sought to sink her fangs into me. For once in my life, I found the presence of such a beauty repugnant . . . and I see my suspicions were correct.”

  “Were you not prisoner in their estate? I’d thought you were.”

  “No . . . but I shall tell you about it when you’re done.” It did not take Nermesa much longer to complete his tale, the Black Dragon finishing with his journey to Gunderland and the subsequent events there.

  Prospero ate the last of his food, then sat still for a moment, concentrating. Finally, he said, “It answers some questions for me, but raises far more. Perhaps when you hear my story, it will do the same for you.”

  “You are correct,” the Poitainian went on, “about the basics of the attack, that they surrounded us in numbers and drove me to where I could not escape. By now, though, you might suspect that they were not Zingarans. Rather, my attackers were all Gundermen.”

  Nermesa leaned back. “All?”

  “I was as surprised as you. More to the point, they were Gundermen with whom I was familiar, members of the garrison under the command of Captain Elarius.”

  “Captain—” The Aquilonian shook his head. “We spoke with him and his second, Halrik—” Nermesa gaped. “A—”

  Prospero nodded. “A Gunderman. In fact, the leader of the attackers. Small wonder that they knew where best to catch us unaware.”

  “More Gundermen . . .”

  “Those who seek the throne must rely heavily on their reputation for reliability, eh, Nermesa? I also find it interesting that Trocero’s message never reached Tarantia, a message that would have first had to travel through the outpost at Samalara . . . which you tell me is commanded by a Captain Dante, also a Gunderman.”

  Someone did indeed seem to trust in Gundermen for this plot. Nermesa mulled over the point. “It would be of interest to know which nobles in the capital have a preference for the service of such.”

  “As I think also. He must have some prestige in Gunderland for so many of them to be willing to become traitors just for good coin. Now, where was I? Ah, yes . . .”

  At the cost of several of their number, the Gundermen took Prospero. Halrik and another Gunderman discussed where best to transfer their prisoner and in the process made mention of an estate. “It is quite possible that it was your Wulfrim with whom he spoke, now that I hear your story. But time seemed of the essence, and they decided that I had to be moved straight on to their contacts in Gunderland . . . which I have surmised includes Arumus.

  “I was taken, bound, out of my beloved Poitain by a group of them under the command of a one-eyed blackguard named Fornus. I knew that if I reached Gunderland still in their clutches, I was done for. Fortunately, my opportunity came near Galparan. I’d been working on my bonds since the beginning, very secretively, and finally achieved success. We were near the Shirki River when I made my bid for freedom.”

  Prospero had hoped to escape to Galparan and come back with reinforcements before the culprits knew what had happened. Much to his regret, however, Fornus and two others spotted him.

  “We did battle by the river, and the
y learned there that one Poitainian knight, even without his sword, is worth four of them . . . and there were only three. I knocked one senseless, slew another with the first’s blade, then fought Fornus near the river’s edge.” Prospero shook his head at the memory. “And in the end, struggling hand to hand, we both fell in. It was there that I made the discovery that, while I could swim, poor Fornus could not.”

  “Did the others not search for you?”

  “Oh, yes, they did, but Fornus’s body in the water and the turbulence of the Shirki at that time convinced them that I had been lost. They could not know that I had managed to make it to the other side and lay hidden in a small depression.”

  The Gundermen finally continued on, and the fact that they did not turn back made Prospero assume that they intended to go on with their plan, whatever it was. “I surmised that at the very least it would involve foul play against Conan—”

  And it was at that moment that Nermesa recalled the terrible news from back home, news that he could not believe he had not mentioned to his companion already. “Prospero! Forgive me! I must tell you! Nemedia wars upon Aquilonia again, and I know that it must do with what happened to us!”

  “How new is the information?” snapped the generally calm Poitainian. When Nermesa told him, he frowned. “Carried by bird, no more than a week, maybe two. Nemedia would be at the border still, then. Conan’s made certain that King Tarascus would never be able to sneak up on him again. We are looking at a long, bloody spectacle . . . but one that Tarascus would surely lose as he did in the past . . . surely . . .”

  “But he expects duplicity on our side, Prospero! Someone who will seek to assassinate Conan, then seize the throne and ally himself with the Nemedian tyrant.”

  The other knight considered this. “Very possible, very possible. It almost happened so the last time . . . and yet, some piece does not fit right.” Sir Prospero finally shrugged. “Well, it is up to us to find that piece and any others missing and fit this all together. Quickly, I might add!”