The Silent Enemy Page 3

“I talked to Orena again.”

  His guard instantly went up. “And?”

  “I would like her to be at the wedding, Nermesa.” Telaria bit her lip.

  “Would she actually come?”

  “I—I think so. So does Morannus. She—she’s a proud woman. But she’s changed. The inroads we started to make before the discovery of Antonus’s treachery were still there, after all.”

  He was not quite moved. “And does Orena truly understand also that I fought to enable her to keep the other half of the baron’s properties, not to mention retaining Lenaro’s holdings? Aquilonian law said otherwise.”

  Telaria drew herself up, momentarily looking very much like a dark-haired version of her sibling. “Yes . . . as a matter of fact, she does.”

  Her response made him exhale. Nodding, Nermesa said, “If it can be so, then let it be so. Nothing would make me happier than to see her there, if only for your sake. She’s done more harm to you than to me, remember.”

  “And I’ve forgiven her for it.” Once more, she was the soft, warm Telaria. Her smile illuminated the marble hall more than could all the oil lamps lining the walls combined. “Thank you, Nermesa. Thank you . . .”

  And with that, she hurried down the hall.

  Nermesa drank in the sight of Telaria for as long as possible, then turned off in the direction of the Black Dragons’ quarters. He wanted to be ready to leave the first moment possible. The sooner that could be, the sooner Nermesa could return home.

  Three weeks, he estimated. Three weeks at most, and he would be back in Tarantia. After everything else that had happened, not long at all.

  Not long at all . . .

  HE RECEIVED THE leather pouch from Publius in the corridor just beyond the royal stables. The chancellor, a rotund, balding man who hardly seemed the sort to be a member of King Conan’s powerful inner circle, tapped the royal seal on the pouch’s lip as he handed it to the knight.

  “Count Trocero will not accept this if the seal is cracked! Mind that nothing happens to cause that! I told the king that he should send a courier with an armed escort, but he and the general think this wiser!” Publius tsked. In his anxiousness, the many gold chains around his neck tinkled. He wore a long, draping purple robe that strained to contain his voluminous belly. “Don’t know why the king even has me if he won’t listen.”

  Nermesa nodded politely, responding accordingly. He was well aware that the man before him, for all his anxious blathering, was a cunning politician whose goals on occasion did not—at least to Bolontes’ son—match those of his liege. Still, Conan relied on him for much more than Publius let on.

  “It will reach the count safely and securely,” Nermesa promised.

  With a noncommittal grunt, the chancellor bid him good journey, then seemed to dismiss the Black Dragon from his thoughts. Nermesa mounted the brown charger he had been given for the journey. A trusted stable hand brought up the reins of his pack animal, a dusky, dreary-eyed mule that could have, from a distance, passed for a fairly good horse.

  “Your things are packed well, my lord. In addition to the dried food in your saddlebags, you’ll be finding some more with your armor.”

  “Thank you, Ulric.”

  “Think you could bring back a Poitainian lass for me?” asked the hand with a grimy smile. “Or at least some of their fine wine?”

  Nermesa chuckled. “If I brought either, Sir Garaldo would claim both before you saw them.”

  Sir Garaldo had been one of Nermesa’s chief trainers upon his arrival in the palace and was a respected fighter. He kept a tight leash on those he felt under his jurisdiction. Since he was also a master with horses, he considered the grooms and stable hands to fall under his command, as well, whether they actually were or not.

  Ulric chuckled, then went to open the way for Nermesa. Bolontes’ son was clad as many a general traveler was, with brown tunic and pants, boots, and a nondescript, hooded cloak of a look akin to his other garments. The leather pouch he had secreted in his saddlebags. His sword hung in a much-abused sheath at his side, the spectacular hilt masked with weathered leather bound tight. Other than his height—which was three or four inches above the average—there was nothing out of the ordinary that might mark him as more than a simple peddler or pilgrim.

  Nermesa left the palace just as the first light of day began filtering over the horizon. Already there were merchants in the market beginning to open up their carts, shops, or tents, and several early shoppers waited at some of them. However, for the most part, the streets were still fairly empty, and those who did look the rider’s way did so with only vague and momentary interest.

  Those guards who knew him for who and what he was let him pass but did not otherwise acknowledge his true status. The same held true for the sentries at Tarantia’s southern gates. They gave Nermesa’s belongings a purposely cursory inspection, then called for others to open the gargantuan, toothed gates and let him pass. As he rode beyond the iron gates, Nermesa’s confidence swelled. Getting out of the capital itself would probably turn out to be the slowest part of his journey. From here on, there was nothing but open plain until near the boundary of Poitain, where the mountains lay. However, according to the instructions given to him by General Pallantides, even crossing them would not be too difficult. Towers and castles lined the most prominent passes, and along with the pouch Nermesa had been given a seal with the golden lion symbol of the king on the top and Count Trocero’s own crimson leopard beneath. The seal would gain him passage through the mountain strongholds and any garrison stops afterward. From the mountains, it would be only three or four more days to Count Trocero’s castle.

  He urged his charger on the moment he was beyond Tarantia’s confines. The way was clear, and the day promised to be a calm, quiet one with no hint of foul weather. Already, distant Poitain beckoned him. Nermesa could scarcely wait to reach the sunny province.

  But even more than Poitain, the eyes and lips of an auburn-haired lady-in-waiting beckoned the knight to hurry back.

  3

  PER INSTRUCTIONS, NERMESA paused each evening at military outposts stretched along his path. The seal and his rank brought him the respect and obedience of the officers in charge. Nermesa almost felt guilty using his authority for such an almost routine mission, but General Pallantides had taught him that he should treat even the most minor of the king’s commands as if the fate of the realm depended upon obeying them. Since the commander spoke from long and hair-raising experience, Nermesa took his words to heart. Yet he still disliked the honor he was accorded each time. The men assigned to these garrisons were good and loyal soldiers who likely had not seen Tarantia in months, perhaps even longer. They would still be out here risking their lives when Nermesa had long returned to the capital and married Telaria.

  Each evening he dined with the commander and passed on what news he knew from Tarantia. In return, the other officer would report what had happened in the vicinity of his garrison. The reports were, thankfully, fairly innocuous. The central region of Aquilonia had been quiet for some time, since Baron Sibelio’s brigands had been brought under control.

  At Samalara—the outpost some two days from Poitain—the garrison not only proved to completely consist of Gundermen, but the officer in charge was a distant cousin of none other than Morannus. The swarthy Dante even resembled Nermesa’s friend and, like many of his people, wore his dark hair bound into a tail.

  When he heard Nermesa’s name, the Gunderman reacted with a startled animation unlike what the Aquilonian had witnessed in any of the latter’s kind. Dante’s eyes fairly bulged, and for a moment he seemed at a loss for words.

  Recovering, the hulking Gunderman finally managed, “Of course I know you, Captain Nermesa Klandes! My cousin has spoken of you well, my lord, and all here know fully the part you played against the traitorous noble, Baron Antonus Sibelio . . .”

  “I did what I must,” returned the Black Dragon in a more subdued manner. He did not like to speak of his ow
n exploits, nor did he desire to correct Captain Dante concerning his elevated station. Nermesa himself was still adjusting to being a baron.

  “Humble words for great deeds.” The Gunderman eyed him under a thick brow. “I toast you again . . .”

  Dante had a propensity for strong rum that Nermesa knew he could not match, and so, after one last drink, the noble bid the Gunderman good night. As with the other outposts, Dante insisted that Nermesa take his quarters, and the reluctant knight did just that.

  Garrisons along the more-traveled trade routes were either stationed at the nearest large settlement or, in the case of Dante’s outpost, near a crossroads. A smaller but valued route heading toward Corinthia meant that much traffic passed near, and so a squat, wooden fort capable of supporting a force of eighty men and several horses was built on the western side. Most of the men slept in a long, flat-roofed barracks, but Dante and his two subofficers had quarters of their own in a separate building directly across from the barracks.

  Beyond the walls but well within the protection of the garrison was a tiny, makeshift settlement of shops and inns that had built up over the past few years. Most of the establishments were intended to offer various comforts for the caravans and riders traveling the trails. There was even a brothel. As with other such stops along the trade routes, the garrison here allowed some leeway when it came to personal pleasures, just so long as things were kept under some control.

  The captain’s quarters were the typically spartan ones Nermesa generally associated with Gundermen. An Aquilonian would have had more personal effects and even a few decorative touches. The furnishings in Dante’s quarters consisted of the flat, utilitarian bed that had likely been used by his past few predecessors, a single, tiny table set next to the bed, and two well-worn oak chairs with high, rectangular backs. The captain’s cloak and a few weapons hung on wooden pegs on the far wall, and a rounded, black chest at the foot of the bed likely held the rest of his garments and other effects.

  A lone brass oil lamp with a rounded bottom hung by an iron chain from the flat ceiling. Atop the table sat a half-burned candle and the only truly personal item other than weaponry and clothes that Nermesa could see. A tiny iron icon sat next to the candle. When the knight stepped forward and inspected it, he saw that it was of the ancient god of Gunderland, Bori, a figure once widely worshipped before Aquilonia had taken control and Mitra had become the dominant deity. The figurine showed Bori in his incarnation as a squat, muscular warrior with a thick beard and a helm with a noseguard. In the right hand, he held a short pike pointed upward and, in the left, a rounded shield with a spike thrusting out of the center. Like any good Gunderman, his hair was carved into a tail. Nermesa thought that the god’s expression seemed brooding, as if Bori waited for something.

  While Mitra was the accepted god in Gunderland, Nermesa knew that many of Dante’s people still quietly honored Bori. Morannus had, on occasion, used the northern deity’s name in oaths, and some of the other Gundermen with whom the Aquilonian had served had worn the occasional small talisman. Nermesa supposed that the northerners were hedging their bets—if one god could not see them through their lives, then surely two would make the odds better.

  After showing Nermesa to his quarters, Dante had gone on to bunk with his second-in-command. It still surprised Nermesa somewhat that an Aquilonian was not in charge—that being the accepted rule—but from what he had so far seen of his host, the Gunderman captain was every bit as efficient, if not more so, than many of the knight’s own countrymen. Of course, considering that Aquilonia was itself ruled by a man from a race even the Gundermen considered barbarians, Nermesa supposed that he should not have been so startled. Under King Conan, men were promoted more for their abilities than their bloodlines.

  The ride had been a long one, and even while dining with Captain Dante, it had taken Bolontes’ son some effort not to look as if he was nodding off. It was not at all surprising, then, that Nermesa drifted off to sleep mere seconds after stripping off his travel garb and lying down on the bed.

  His dreams were jumbled, consisting of brief images of himself with Telaria mixed with his various duties as an officer of the Black Dragons and a newly minted baron. Visions of what Nermesa imagined Poitain to be like also intruded . . . olive groves with dark-haired, beckoning women and stern, plate-armored knights on horseback were but a few.

  But, despite the depths of his slumber, something caused the Aquilonian suddenly to stir. The room was as dark as pitch, the only light of any sort filtering in through the one tightly shuttered window near the doorway. Without any movement that might reveal that he was now awake, Nermesa surveyed the one side of the captain’s quarters through slitted eyes. He saw nothing, but sensed that not all was as it should be.

  One hand already lay under the feather pillow Captain Dante had left, but it did not immediately slide to the dagger that Nermesa had long learned to keep handy there. Instead, it went to the small pouch that the Black Dragon had also secreted underneath before going to sleep . . . the small pouch containing the documents he had been asked to deliver to Count Trocero.

  Satisfied that they were there, the knight’s fingers switched to the dagger. Nermesa gripped the hilt, at the same time, to all apparent purposes, still sleeping undisturbed.

  He heard the creak of a floorboard behind him.

  With a fluidity of movement that bitter experience had honed well, the Black Dragon spun about in the bed, the dagger already in flight. In the black chamber, Nermesa heard the solid thunk as his blade struck something that was not wood.

  That sound was followed by a strong grunt and the shuffling of boots. As Nermesa leapt to his feet, something hard collided with him. Only belatedly did he realize it to be one of the chairs.

  But the collision had thrown Nermesa closer to where he kept his sword. The weapon, purposely set unsheathed near the opposing side of the bed, was in his hand even as he turned the collision into a crouch.

  A dim but still-startling glow met Nermesa’s gaze as he came to his feet again. As his eyes compensated, he saw that the door to the room now hung wide open. Near the entrance, his dagger lay on the floor, a dark pool of liquid surrounding it.

  Nermesa wasted no more time, charging out of the captain’s quarters and into the open interior of the fort. He paused to listen for some sound of fleeing footsteps but heard nothing.

  A guard suddenly came rushing over to the Aquilonian. Before the man could speak, Nermesa asked, “Did you see him? Did you see where he went?”

  “Who—”

  Another voice cut in. “Captain Nermesa! What is it?”

  Dante, his upper torso unclothed, joined the two. He wielded a thick broadsword, which he looked very capable of using.

  “Someone stole into the room. I think—I think he was after my pouch . . .” Despite the urgency of seeking the assailant, Nermesa suddenly whirled about and headed back inside. Rushing to the bed, he thrust his hand underneath the pillow and, with tremendous relief, dragged forth the small package. The seal was still on it, which meant that the contents were safe.

  Returning outside, he saw the garrison commander—now surrounded by a half a dozen other soldiers—giving orders. Someone had brought oil lamps and three other soldiers scoured the ground in search of clues.

  “I don’t understand how he got in here,” snarled Dante. “Rest assured, though, he’ll not get far!”

  Nermesa was not so certain. Even after one of the other Gundermen located what looked like blood spots heading toward the eastern side of the fort, he suspected that the mysterious intruder was already well hidden.

  But Captain Dante was determined to follow through, and Nermesa certainly did not wish to let his mysterious assailant slip through his fingers. With an able squad of Dante’s countrymen behind them, the duo followed the men with the lamps. The trail quickly ended near a wall, where, up on the walkway that encompassed the entire interior of the fort, they discovered a grisly sight.

 
; One of the sentries had been packed tight into a corner of the walkway, his body purposely crumpled in a heap. In the dark, no one could see him unless they were right upon the location.

  Nermesa inspected the corpse. The man had been stabbed through the heart. Blood still trickled down his torso. He had not been dead all that long, likely minutes before the intrusion.

  Before he could make a better inspection, Captain Dante pointed beyond the fort. “The damned knave must’ve slipped back among the caravans and the shops!” He all but dragged Nermesa from the dead sentry. “Come! Before the trail grows too cold! I’ll not have this go on under my command without finding the one who did it!”

  Descending, the Gunderman led Nermesa and the others into civilian “Samalara.” Though it was late, and one would have thought that most of those travelers who had stopped for the night would be fast asleep, activity was still high in some of the more disreputable establishments. These Captain Dante immediately focused upon.

  “There! There and there!” As parties of men rushed to the various places to which he had pointed, the officer and Nermesa entered what passed for an inn but was more of a giant, precarious-looking wooden box.

  “If you please,” the Gunderman said to his companion, “I will oversee matters here.”

  “Of course.” Nermesa had no intention of usurping Dante’s authority even though he already had his doubts as to finding their quarry here.

  The interior of the inn—called The Drunken Mule—was shabby and disreputable. Yet, its clientele was a mix of every component of the social order, from richly gowned merchants to dust-covered and grimy loners who possibly could have listed thievery among their various trades. The music played by a portly woman with a flute and a graying man strumming a round lyre was tolerable at best, but it made for a background noise that likely enabled the patrons to feel as if they were home rather than in the middle of nowhere.

  The music paused as Captain Dante raised his weapon, and called, “I want order now! No one is to so much as rise from their seats or raise a hand in protest! Hear me?”