The Silent Enemy Read online

  “Why did you not let Count Trocero know of your escape?” asked Nermesa, returning to the story.

  “Because then the vipers would have crawled back into their holes, waiting for us to grow complacent again. I knew that my best clue lay not in returning to Poitain and capturing Halrik, who likely knew only so much could be sacrificed, but to come here, where my captors had intended. I followed them, just as you followed your Wulfrim, and have been here ever since.”

  Nermesa could fill in the rest. “And Melia alerted you to my presence.”

  “Yes, she is a clever lass . . . in many ways. The opportunity was a golden one, and now that you have told me about this Wulfrim, some recent events make more sense. Arumus welcomed a new arrival, one he treated with much respect. From your description and what I managed to make out of the man, it must be this Wulfrim.”

  But Nermesa found it puzzling that Arumus would welcome someone who had failed, as Wulfrim clearly had. That Dario’s brother had done so meant to the Aquilonian that Wulfrim was an even more important part of the plan than he had previously thought.

  “Is Wulfrim still in the castle?”

  “If it is indeed the man you chased, then, yes, I believe so. The day is overcast; I think it safe for us to slip back out and keep watch on the castle. I have reason to believe that something is imminent there, perhaps your Wulfrim preparing to head to his masters in Aquilonia. It would make sense with what you told me about Nemedia’s sudden move.”

  It would be a risky excursion, but Nermesa did not hesitate to agree to it. He knew that the more time they waited, the worse the situation in the east would become.

  And the more likely that the conspirators in Tarantia would put their assassination attempt into play.

  Prospero led the way again as the two, now mounted, departed the ancient cave. Nermesa eyed the drawings once more, wondering at the mystical forces that might be a part of them. He especially recalled the part of the dream when the figure he thought of as Crom had looked down at him. That, surely, had been a creation of his mind, not some link to the spirit world. Prospero’s dreams had never included the Cimmerian god. Likely, as his companion had suggested, Nermesa’s slumbering mind had incorporated Crom into the dream after the Poitainian had mentioned how near the two were to King Conan’s former home.

  Yes, that had to be it . . .

  “We ride toward the north,” the other knight informed him as they traveled. “There is a smaller gate on that face of the castle. I have noticed that when there are suspicious matters going on, it tends to be the side hidden from Heinard through which the miscreants pass. I believe that the headman does not know what his own brother is up to.”

  The thought of riding even farther north did not sit well with Nermesa, who already felt much too near Crom’s domain. Worse, the misty peaks farther on reminded him of those in the dream and he half expected to see one of the giant, furred pachyderms come stomping toward Gunderland.

  More than an hour passed, and still Nermesa caught no sign of the castle itself. When he finally broached the subject to his companion, Prospero pointed to a hill some distance to the west.

  “A watch post there.” The Poitainian noble indicated another hill more to the southwest. “And there. There are others. I’ve memorized them all and noted any changes that Arumus makes. Our journey will take much longer than it should, but I believe it will get us to our destination unnoticed.”

  Nermesa appreciated Prospero’s thoroughness even more when they finally veered around toward their goal and he spotted the first patrol from the castle. Prospero nodded when he saw the riders, who could not see the pair from their vantage point.

  “Exactly on schedule. I admire that about the Gundermen. Very punctual.”

  Once the patrol had passed, the duo continued on to Prospero’s chosen location. Nermesa immediately saw the advantages of it. There was a natural overhang that protected both them and their horses from most of the elements and a ridge that kept the watchers from the view of those in the castle. However, one could only reach it safely if originally coming from the northeast, something no Cimmerian raider could have done without first being sighted by one of the other outposts Prospero had pointed out. Therefore, there was little reason for anyone in the castle to concern themselves with the desolate location.

  Or so both men hoped.

  “It’s served me well so far,” remarked the other knight to Nermesa. “But each time I return here with more caution than previously.”

  They settled down immediately to the task, one watching the castle while the other kept an eye out for any unexpected patrols. Every now and then, the knights switched, in part to keep their minds fresh by the change in scenery.

  Nermesa estimated that at least four hours passed with little to note other than the changing of the castle’s own patrols. Yet he and Prospero persevered, both highly aware of the threat to all Aquilonia.

  The Poitainian abruptly cleared his throat. Nermesa, who had been shifting his gaze from Gunderland to Cimmeria and back again, immediately tensed.

  “What is it?”

  “Another patrol departing. That’s a change in their routine, and I think it for a specific reason.”

  “Could they be aware of us?” Nermesa’s hand slid to the hilt of his sword.

  “Possibly, but this location should keep us safe from prying eyes. I would almost swear that they are expecting someone.”

  Both men now kept an eye out, waiting. Their patience was finally rewarded near sunset, when two riders in long travel cloaks came back to the northern gate with the patrol that had earlier ridden out.

  Nermesa leaned forward as best he could. Even from a distance, there was something in the way one of the newcomers moved that reminded him of—

  The figure removed his hood. Although he was a Gunderman, his hair was loose.

  Wulfrim.

  “It’s he!” Nermesa muttered quickly. “That’s Wulfrim!”

  “The same one I thought it might be. So he’s been out and about. He must have left the castle when I slept. Those cloaks. Only he and the other are wearing them.”

  Nermesa had noticed that, also. Both Wulfrim and his companion were clad more warmly than the other hardy Gundermen.

  “They came from Cimmeria . . .” he suggested.

  Prospero shook his head. “By way of Cimmeria. Even your Wulfrim would not be so mad as to stay there longer than needed. They must have links with the next castle to the east or even the one beyond that.”

  Both knights grew silent for a moment. If such was the case, then the number of Gundermen working for the mysterious plotters was greater than they had thought. Nermesa was aware just how much gold it would cost to bribe so many to turn traitor. That meant a noble with many connections and rich holdings and, while there were more than a few of those, their number was still very much finite.

  It still puzzled him that they relied so much on the Gundermen, especially so many still living in their homeland. Of what use was it to keep them here? Surely, they should have been moving toward Tarantia to shore up whatever pretender sought the throne.

  He said as much to Prospero, who could not answer him. For all his years of fighting the intrigues of Aquilonian politics, the Poitainian was just as baffled.

  “At least we know now that Wulfrim is with Dario’s brother,” Nermesa finally said. “And I believe him to be the key to unlocking all this.”

  “Agreed. I would suggest that our next move be—hold on!”

  Nermesa followed the other man’s gaze. Wulfrim, who had appeared to be ready to enter Arumus’s castle, pulled his hood over his head again just as a graying figure in armor stepped out from the edifice.

  “Arumus,” Prospero clarified.

  Dario’s brother grunted something to Wulfrim, then handed him a small sack. Another Gunderman following Arumus gave Wulfrim’s companion a larger pouch, which Nermesa surmised might contain supplies.

  Wulfrim said something in return t
o Arumus, then both men raised their hands in a splayed-finger gesture that Nermesa did not recognize. He looked to Prospero for explanation, but the Poitainian did not have one.

  A moment later, the two hooded riders turned their mounts around. The Black Dragon expected the patrol to escort them out, but the other Gundermen remained behind.

  “This is our opportunity,” Prospero suddenly remarked. “I know where they must pass. I think the pair of us can handle but two men, wouldn’t you say?”

  Nermesa nodded grimly. He had chased Wulfrim for far too long to pass up this opportunity.

  The knights slipped back to their mounts. Prospero made a quick study of the terrain in order to ascertain if there were any patrols or outposts that might see their departure, then led Nermesa north after the two riders.

  “Will we have to ride into Cimmeria?” the Aquilonian asked in a whisper.

  “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.