The Silent Enemy Read online

  “So we assume, at least,” the count said with a eye toward Gregorio. “There were signs enough of blood that did not seem to belong to ours. We could be more sure if there’d been bodies. You know of that?”

  Gregorio straightened. “I told him, uncle.”

  At that moment, the servant returned. The liveried figure brought with him a tray upon which were three silver chalices and a decanter of a pale wine. Trocero sat silently and patiently as the young man poured wine, then set the goblets before the count and his companions.

  The lord of Poitain took a sip before continuing. “Did you stop anywhere along the way while in our land, Nermesa?”

  “In the mountains, I stayed at the castle of Sir Octavio. He said nothing, but I thought I noted something amiss in his manner when I first arrived there.”

  “Octavio’s a cousin and a trusted man.”

  Nermesa nodded understanding. He had thought by Octavio’s name that the other noble might be related to Trocero. In Poitain, many of the male aristocracy had the same ending to their names, hence Gregorio’s and Lorenzo’s also sounding similar. It was an ancient custom still strong in the province, especially among those belonging to some extent to the ruling House.

  “He no doubt thought at first, as my nephew did, that you came in swift response to my missive to the king, and when you revealed ignorance, decided it best to leave the matter to my discretion.” Trocero let out a grunt. “Or my nephew’s, it seems.”

  “My apologies, Uncle—”

  “Never mind. You did right, I think.”

  Something that had been bothering Nermesa since first he had heard the terrible news finally came to the forefront. “My lord, why would the brigands steal away their dead? Why would they wish to hide their identities from you?”

  Count Trocero slammed down his chalice so hard that the stylized leopard molded onto the neck seemed to leap as if alive. “Because they do not wish us to know that Zingara is once more attempting evil! Who else would strike at one of Poitain’s finest but those who fear him most?” He leaned forward, his dark brown eyes furious. “Prospero is a champion among champions, as even King Conan would attest! A brash and somewhat exuberant soul, some would say, but as loyal a man and as good a sword as any you’d find elsewhere. It is no small thing that he commands the province’s host.”

  Considering the reputation of Poitain’s knights, no small thing at all, Bolontes’ son thought. “Have there been incursions by the Zingarans of late?”

  “A few ruffians found thieving around the border, nothing more. But don’t think that such little activity means that the devils aren’t up to something. Those in power would like to distract from their own problems by offering up Poitain as a wealthy prize to their discontented subjects. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last.”

  That made sense to Nermesa, but Prospero’s kidnapping did not, unless . . . “Sir Prospero is your right-hand man.”

  “When he’s not busy being that of the king,” Trocero remarked with momentary humor.

  “Then he knows not only much concerning Poitain’s defenses and capabilities, but also that of Aquilonia as a whole.”

  His statement was not met with surprise. The count nodded, adding grimly, “So I thought also. If the Zingarans do not want some of this information for themselves, then they might be willing to sell it to someone in exchange for aid in taking my beloved Poitain.”

  Nemedia and Argos came to mind, although the latter, being neighbor to Zingara, was just as likely to desire Poitain as much.

  “They’ll try to tear the information from his tongue,” the Aquilonian blurted. “They’ll stop at nothing for it.”

  “Prospero will never give in to torture!” Gregorio insisted, slamming his fist on the table and nearly upsetting his chalice. “He can withstand anything the knaves attempt!”

  Count Trocero calmed him down, then said to Nermesa, “My nephew, as many do, sets Sir Prospero on a high pedestal . . . and with good reason, I say. Still, while he may steel himself against most known methods, there are some that no man can deny. I speak of the dark arts. It would not be unheard of for Zingara to turn to a renegade Kothian or even a Stygian practitioner to deal with Prospero.” Trocero’s gaze grew veiled. “By Mitra, I fear for him if that’s the case.”

  “Let’s hope it’s not.”

  “The truth must be found, Nermesa; the sooner the better.”

  The Black Dragon stood. While he still wanted to return to the capital—and Telaria—as soon as possible, Nermesa could not ignore such a situation. “I offer my aid, my lord, until such time as King Conan sends others more suited.”

  “And welcome it is,” returned the count. “I know you and your reputation. Prospero himself spoke of your deeds out in the Westermarck with open admiration, and the plot you uncovered concerning the Baron Sibelio is talked about even among the people here.”

  Gregorio stiffened. Eyes widening, he blurted, “That was you?”

  “Yes, nephew, it was he.” To Nermesa, Trocero reached out a hand. The grip was as strong as that of any young soldier. “I accept your help. I’ll send new word to Tarantia . . . and, by Mitra, this time I’ll see that it reaches King Conan if I have to send a hundred birds and messengers!”

  THE CHAMBERS GIVEN to Nermesa were as luxurious as those in his childhood home, but the Aquilonian scarcely noticed them. All that mattered was the bed—where he promptly fell asleep—then the coming of dawn. Before the sun was scarcely above the horizon, Nermesa was dressed and ready to begin the search.

  Count Trocero insisted on a good breakfast first, the better to maintain their strength during the arduous day ahead, then set about dividing his men up. Nermesa wasted no time in requesting that he be shown where Sir Prospero’s trail had ended. The count approved, sending Gregorio and a dozen knights with Nermesa for good measure.

  As for Trocero, he had his own destination in mind. “I’ve the thought to search a rocky ravine near the border with Argos. It means being gone for three, maybe four days, but you’ll need that time yourself to reach and survey the area where Prospero was taken.”

  “You have some clue concerning the ravine, my lord?”

  “No, simply a possible hunch. It came to me as I woke that there are caves aplenty there, certainly large enough ones for hiding a prisoner while he’s being tortured.”

  No one said what was in the thoughts of all. They might locate where the assailants had taken their captive, only to find that Prospero had then either been slain or been taken to Zingara. What would happen then was anyone’s guess, although Nermesa suspected that neither Count Trocero nor the king would allow something so flimsy as a border to keep them from mounting a rescue or, failing that, seeing justice done.

  Gregorio led the party northward. Lush groves of olive trees—their green, swollen fruit ever so inviting—gave way to fields, then open plain. They made camp out in the open that night, then continued on as soon as daylight came. Count Trocero’s nephew explained along the way how Prospero himself had been in search of possible infiltration by Zingarans and the like and that his last report had come from an outpost near the Serenti Pass, the region where the missing knight’s cousin oversaw one of the huge mountain towers.

  “We first became aware of something amiss when the tower sent a bird with a note wondering at Sir Prospero’s absence,” Gregorio went on. “Uncle had men immediately go and investigate . . . and you know the rest.”

  Near the end of the next day, they reached an Aquilonian station. While the Poitainians considered themselves quite capable of defending their province, Tarantia politics dictated that King Conan have a sizable force loyal to Aquilonia present. While Count Trocero considered his monarch a sword-brother, many in the north still recalled the stories from generations past when Poitainian knights had been the enemy. The locals took such garrisons with some slight amusement, positive that even the well-respected Gunderman pikemen who made up the majority of
the Aquilonian contingents here would not long stand against their armored host if a confrontation, however unlikely, took place.

  The commander of the outpost, Captain Elarius, was a ruddy-faced Bossonian with thinning blond hair. His second was a Gunderman named Halrik, who, after only a few minutes’ conversation, was, by Nermesa’s estimate, the true man in charge.

  “Aye, we searched up and down and all around,” Elarius rumbled. His armor strained at the laces, a sign that he had been enjoying the climes of Poitain more than he should have. There was also the hint of ale on his breath. “Very thorough we were, sir,” he said to Nermesa. The garrison commander glanced over his shoulder at his second. “That’s so, isn’t it, Halrik?”

  The brown-haired Gunderman nodded. His eyes flashed apology concerning his superior’s state to Nermesa and Sir Gregorio as he replied, “Aye, Captain. Very, very thorough.”

  Nermesa questioned Elarius for a few minutes more, but was glad when the captain placed their needs in the hands of Halrik. The Gunderman watched his commanding officer depart, then muttered, “He does his duty as needs be, my lord. I’d not trade him for another here.”

  The Black Dragon nodded. “But you undertook full control of the search, didn’t you?”

  “Aye. I generally do in such matters.”

  “And you found nothing out of the ordinary that might give us a clue as to Sir Prospero’s disappearance?”

  The Gunderman shook his head, his ponytail swinging back and forth. “We searched hard. All know of Sir Prospero, his deeds, and his importance to King Conan. I recall him myself as the man who slew wicked Amalrus, King of Ophir, some years back. It is no lie to say that he is the only man who may be closer to the king than even General Pallantides or Count Trocero.”

  “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 barel
y 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?