The Silent Enemy Read online

There was a sound that might have been thunder or the rattle of hooves on the rock. A few loose stones clattered down from above, perhaps washed off by the storm or kicked up by a boot. Nermesa was well aware that if they discovered him, he could do little to prevent his capture.

  The voices drew nearer, their words drowned out by the savage weather. At one point, they seemed almost on top of his location.

  Then, as he continued to hold his breath, the sounds of pursuit retreated. Nermesa did not relax, well aware that they could just as suddenly return. He leaned back as best he could, the lip of the hole giving him some respite from the rain, and waited.

  Somewhere along the way, Nermesa’s exhaustion caught up to him, and he drifted off. It was not a comforting slumber, and more than once Bolontes’ son would stir just long enough to register his surroundings before falling asleep again.

  Then, his subconscious slowly noticed the lack of any more rain dribbling down. Nermesa slowly stirred to life, his bones and muscles initially protesting vehemently.

  When Nermesa looked up, it was to see nothing but darkness. Frowning, he listened for any hint of his pursuers. After several minutes, the Aquilonian, sword sheathed, started up.

  The way proved a bit more slippery than Nermesa had imagined, but by pressing his back against the other edge of the chamber, he finally managed to get high enough to grasp for the opening. Even then, it took him several attempts to locate a place where his grip was secure.

  The Aquilonian warily thrust his head up. As he had surmised, it was night. Clouds still covered most of the sky, making the area even darker.

  Pulling himself out of the hole, Nermesa paused to catch his breath and take his bearings. He did not think it wise to head to the area where he and Gregorio had planned to meet. That was too near where the riders had attacked him.

  Nermesa finally remembered the light he had seen during his flight. The hooded men would certainly not have left it burning. It had to be a campfire set up by the Poitainian knights.

  His slumber hardly one granting recuperation, Nermesa nonetheless plunged on as if an army of would-be kidnappers and murderers nipped like hounds at his heels. He worried not so much for himself but for Gregorio, the other Poitainians, and even, more and more, for the realm as a whole. Someone was very eager to lay their hands on those who very trusted by King Conan and thus the secrets that those men could divulge.

  Nermesa left the hills for the plains with some trepidation even though the darkness completely veiled him. The hooded hunters could easily be in the vicinity still, and under the cover of night they would likely be even bolder in their movements. Each sound of movement set the Aquilonian ready for battle. More than once, a shadowed form made him start, Nermesa realizing only later that it was a tree or stony feature of the region.

  He was not even certain that he was heading in the right direction until, stepping up over a small rise, a flicker of light caught his eye. It was far too stationary for a campfire, especially with the wind still howling, and after a time Nermesa surmised it to be illumination from one of the two estates Gregorio had mentioned. While Nermesa would have preferred it to be the search party, the estate surely had heard from them or could even aid Nermesa in contacting Count Trocero.

  Despite the obvious distance to his intended destination, Nermesa eagerly picked up his pace. Surely, they would also be able to provide him with a horse, too . . .

  The landscape continued to flatten out as he closed in on his destination. Vague shapes formed in the distance, the ones beyond the estate Nermesa finally identifying as yet more hills. The light that he had been following came not from the main house, but rather a high, wide tower on the eastern edge.

  And as Nermesa looked east, he saw something else.

  A party of riders, two bearing torches, raced westward along what was evidently a road. There were at least a dozen men and as they traveled, their journey was marked by the incessant clank of metal against metal.

  Poitainian knights.

  Struggling against his weariness, Nermesa started running. As he did, he swung his sword high above his head and shouted at the top of his voice.

  But the clatter of hooves overwhelmed his call. The knights rode on, intent only on the road. Nermesa continued yelling. He took his sword and banged it against his breastplate, but still the racket he caused went unheeded.

  And, at last, the knights rode out of sight, the last evidence of their passing the flickering flames of the two dwindling torches.

  Panting, Nermesa wasted no time in turning his attention back to the estate. If he could get there quick enough, perhaps they could simply lend him the horse he needed so that he could chase after the knights.

  It took several minutes to reach the road, then many more to cut across the grounds. Grain seemed to be the chief commodity grown here. Nermesa trudged through the field, ever eyeing the estate house. At some point during his attempt to call to the knights, the light had gone out in the tower, but another now illuminated part of the main building.

  As he neared the structure, someone called out. Suddenly, four men in breastplates rushed toward the Aquilonian from the shadows. Swords and spears held ready, they formed an arc around the intruder.

  The knight turned his blade downward. “I am Nermesa Klandes of the Black Dragons, agent of King Conan and guest of Count Trocero! I was attacked in the hills while conducting a search for his majesty and your count! I must speak with your master!”

  “That would be Lord Eduarco,” replied a bearded Poitainian who was evidently the leader of the four. “Derot! Run ahead inside and wake him.”

  As the guard in question rushed off, another man with a torch joined the group. The leader of the guards had him step toward Nermesa. The Aquilonian stood utterly still while he was inspected.

  “A Black Dragon, all right. Seen the breastplate once when his lordship had business in Tarantia,” the bearded figure commented. “Know it always. Never thought to see it down here.” He waved his sword. “All right. You can wait in the great hall.”

  With a grateful nod, Nermesa followed. As no one had asked for his weapon, he sheathed it. However, the knight did also note that, despite the man’s confirmation of his identity, the guards still surrounded him as they headed to the house.

  Two more armed men waited for them at the entrance. Like the others, they wore simple silver breastplates over their tunics and had matching shin guards. The rest of their uniform consisted of a cloth kilt and leather sandals. A running horse framed by a laurel had been embossed into each breastplate over the area of the heart.

  There was a bit of commotion from upstairs, likely Lord Eduarco quickly dressing before seeing the intruder. The bearded leader dismissed all but the two men already standing inside, then stood waiting with Nermesa.

  “What’s this, then?” asked a steady voice that did not come from upstairs but rather down the main corridor. A figure with the stride of a general marched toward the group, one hand resting atop the hilt of a sheathed sword as long as Nermesa’s arm.

  “Begging your pardon, Wulfrim! This here’s a Black Dragon of his majesty, King Conan! He’s come to us in need.”

  Nermesa studied the newcomer with as much interest as Wulfrim did him. Wulfrim was a hawk-nosed Gunderman who, unlike most, seemed to prefer his long, tawny hair to fall free. His eyes were narrow set under a thick brow ridge. The Gunderman was clad like the others, save that his breastplate was gold.

  The Aquilonian nodded. “I am Nermesa Klandes—”

  Wulfrim’s eyes flashed recognition. “The Westermarck . . .”

  It astounded Nermesa each time he was recognized, especially far from home. Of course, in Tarantia, Prospero had been one of those most entertained by his adventures, and very likely the boisterous knight had regaled others with them upon his return home. From the court of Count Trocero, the stories had no doubt spread throughout Poitain.

  “I am he,” Bolontes’ son quietly admitted.

  The gua
rds looked at him with some awe, apparently also now recognizing who he was. Wulfrim nodded approval. “Welcome to the home of Lord Eduarco. He will be honored, I’m certain, once he comes down—”

  “I’m here, I’m here!” piped a voice. Flanked by two armed guards, a short, round-faced man near the age of Nermesa’s father trundled down the long, curving staircase to the side. The balding Lord Eduarco was clad in a knee-length, white tunic with gold bordering. The garment strained to contain his prodigious bulk. He was the first Poitainian Nermesa had ever seen so round.

  He was also the shortest, being more than a foot less than his unexpected guest. Lord Eduarco seized Nermesa’s hand and pumped it several times. His narrow, black mustache and short beard looked almost as if they had been drawn on his face by some errant child. Eduarco’s black eyes were beady but not unintelligent.

  “An agent of the king himself!” he chimed, not at all seeming the dour figure that Gregorio had described. “Certainly, we are glad to receive you! Mitra! Did you come by the river?”

  “River?”

  “There is a river just north of the estate. Before the hills,” explained Wulfrim. With what sounded like patience, the Gunderman said to his master, “No, my lord, he came from the southern part of the estate.”

  “I’ve been through the hills, the ones just before the peaks begin,” the Black Dragon added.

  Eduarco looked more distressed. “All that distance? Heavens! You must be all done in! You will stay the night, surely! Won’t he, Wulfrim?”

  “I thank you, but I can’t,” returned Nermesa, still thinking of the armored figures heading west. This late, their destination could not lie all that far away. “If I—if I could simply borrow a horse, I’m certain Count Trocero would—”

  Without warning, the Aquilonian’s head spun. The travails of the day caught up to him. He was forced to lean for a moment on his host, who had to struggle to keep both himself and the much taller, armored figure from ending up in a sprawling heap on the marble floor.

  “Wulfrim! Wulfrim!” the Poitainian noble shouted fearfully. “Do something, won’t you?”

  “I’ve got him!” The Gunderman seized Nermesa by the shoulders and pulled him up as if Bolontes’ son weighed almost nothing.

  With effort, Nermesa freed himself from Wulfrim’s grip. Legs still unsteady, he managed, “My—my apologies, Lord Eduarco. Perhaps if I could just sit down for a few minutes, maybe have some water . . .”

  “Tut, tut! We can do far more than that—ah! Jenoa! Could you please see to some food for our guest! He’s a Black Dragon, one of King Conan’s finest and most trusted!”

  “Of course, my darling.” A hint of jasmine wafted under Nermesa’s nose and as he focused, he saw a golden-haired figure glide gracefully past the noble and Wulfrim. She was dressed in a silken gown the color of moonlight, which not only accented greatly the long, brilliant tresses, but had been molded around her arresting figure.

  She paused at the corridor and looked over her shoulder at the group. Some of the golden blond hair draped over one of her deep, emerald eyes. Her skin was like ivory, which Nermesa found odd in a place of such sunshine. She pursed round, naturally red lips, and said, “And after that, I think I should prepare a bed.”

  Lord Eduarco’s head bobbed up and down. “Indeed, oh, certainly indeed!” To Nermesa, he added, “You heard my dear wife, my friend. You will be staying with us.”

  “Of course, he will,” echoed Wulfrim. “By Bori, the man’s all done in.”

  Nermesa could argue no more with either them or Lady Jenoa, for, at that moment, his legs gave way, and he spilled to the floor.

  6

  WITH THE AID of the Gunderman and the bearded guard, Nermesa made it to the dining hall. The chamber was modest in size by the standards of the Aquilonian’s own family home, but still had a stone fireplace that filled most of the far end and, before it, a long, oak table polished to perfection and whose legs had been carved to resemble those of a graceful horse. Above the center of the table, a wheel-shaped candelabra hung by fat, iron links from the high, coffered ceiling. A massive chain at the top enabled servants to lower the display for lighting, but for this night, two much smaller candelabra with arms had been quickly set upon the table.

  As another servant worked to light the fireplace, Lord Eduarco and Nermesa began to eat and drink. Because of expediency, the fare consisted of a thick, salty soup left over from the evening meal and some goat, also highly seasoned. The soup was accompanied by a crusted bread whose interesting taste and texture were apparently due to the use of olive oil in the baking. In fact, small bits of olives could also be found in the slices, a touch Nermesa especially appreciated now.

  Wulfrim settled into a corner near the fireplace, the Gunderman leaning against the wall with arms crossed. His employer sat at the end of the table with Nermesa at the corner next to him. Lady Jenoa should have been sitting at the right hand of her husband and across from the Aquilonian, but she ever found some reason to hover over Nermesa. If he took a sip of the heady, golden wine—one of the estate’s own treasures, Lord Eduarco was eager to repeat often—she was there to fill it up, not to mention fill the knight’s view with her arresting décolletage.

  She leaned closer, almost as if Nermesa were deaf, and murmured, “You find everything to your liking, good sir?”

  “I am satisfied,” he returned cautiously.

  She smiled, displaying perfect white teeth. “We hope so. Can I interest you in anything else?”

  Her husband appeared oblivious to her actions, and what little Nermesa could see of Wulfrim revealed nothing to the Aquilonian, for the fighter’s expression was a mask. Very likely, Wulfrim had witnessed his mistress act so to other men.

  “Thank you, no.” He tried to leave her without any doubt that his answer also referred to her. Once, such charms might have twisted him around her finger, but for Bolontes’ son there was now and would ever be only Telaria.

  As Eduarco seemed unable to see his wife’s flirtations, so, too, did Lady Jenoa appear not to notice Nermesa’s rejection. She reached again for the wine decanter, letting some of her luxurious hair sweep past his cheek.

  “My darling bride is not Poitainian, as you might have guessed,” the lord of the estate declared cheerfully. “She is Brythunian, actually, thus her exquisite beauty. Jenoa is the daughter of a prince with whom I had business. Her green eyes are exotic even for that land, I might add.”

  “Have you ever been to Brythunia, Nermesa?” his wife asked as she poured the wine.

  “I’ve not, but I’ve heard of its women’s beauty, yes.” He gently took the goblet from near her in order to prevent her pouring more wine.

  With another lingering smile, Lady Jenoa put down the decanter and returned to her seat, every step she took designed to pull the men’s gazes to her. Even Nermesa could not help but look.

  “A cold, provincial place,” she said unexpectedly. “Little princes squabbling over little domains and all of them seeking to curry favor from either Aquilonia or Nemedia.”

  “Her father chose Aquilonia,” interjected Nermesa’s host. “When he heard that I was cousin to King Conan’s very good friend and comrade, Count Trocero—well, third cousin, once removed, but cousin nonetheless—he gladly accepted my offer for his daughter.”

  To Nermesa, his description almost made it sound as if Eduarco had bought Jenoa like a piece of merchandise. Perhaps, the knight pondered, that was not so far from the truth. It would not be the first time that a daughter had been so bartered in exchange for possible favor and an alliance.

  “And I was glad to be away from there,” Jenoa continued, smiling briefly at her husband and much longer to their guest. “Poitain is a much more glorious place. I think only Tarantia would be more exciting to live in. You live in Tarantia, don’t you, Nermesa?”

  “All my life. And upon my return, I and my betrothed will be married and live in a house very near the palace.”

  If he expected h
is carefully designed answer to dissuade her from further flirtation, Nermesa was again wrong. His mention of Telaria went uncommented upon, but not where he intended to make his residence.

  “So near the palace! You would probably see the king very often, then?”

  It was Wulfrim who suddenly spoke up. “He is a Black Dragon, my lady. When he is in Tarantia, I daresay he sees King Conan nearly every day up close. Isn’t that so, Sir Nermesa?”

  Nermesa had not mentioned that he was also now a baron, in part because he had not wanted to lord his new status over those giving him shelter and sustenance, but also because it would likely raise him even higher in Jenoa’s eyes. Obviously, even Count Trocero’s court paled compared to that of the king’s.

  “The king, on occasion, does visit Trocero,” Eduarco said, for the first time almost sounding defensive. “You recall that we went to the last such event, my dear.”

  “And it was a marvelous hint of what palace life must be like, darling, but just that.”

  Grunting, the Poitainian noble took his goblet and, after downing much of what remained of his wine, looked to Nermesa. “Have you had enough, Sir Nermesa?”

  The Aquilonian assumed that Eduarco meant the food, not Jenoa. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Terrible business, this, about poor Sir Prospero! And now you, also, nearly ridden down by those brigands! Your escape was very harrowing!”

  “Mitra watched over me. Hopefully, he watches over Sir Prospero, too.”

  His host nodded enthusiastically. “Do you think Prospero still lives? If there is a ransom, rest assured, I will be glad to assist in its payment! Truly, I would!”

  “That’s most kind of you,” Nermesa replied with a nod. The nod, however, nearly ended in him drifting off. Shaking his head, the Aquilonian quickly said, “My apologies, Lord Eduarco. I meant no offense.”

  “None taken, none taken. I hope you realize that, despite your protests earlier, you’re definitely staying the night?”

  While Nermesa still would have liked to ride on, his body could no longer do so. It would prove difficult enough rising out of the chair, much less mounting a horse and traveling the open road for another two hours, as Wulfrim had earlier explained any such excursion would require. If the knights had been heading at such a clip westward, then they had been en route to a particular outpost, the Gunderman had told him. Nermesa knew that in his present condition he would never be able to complete the journey.