The Silent Enemy

by Richard A. Knaak

  Some of the travelers flinched, but those who appeared to be part of the establishment took the Gunderman’s command in the sort of stride that indicated that they had heard it many times before. For some reason, that did not strike Nermesa as a good thing. His suspicions that the chase would come to naught further increased.

  The remaining men with them spread out and methodically searched the premises. Dante requested that Nermesa wait by the entrance while the garrison commander questioned the proprietor, a sallow, bald individual with scars across his cheeks.

  Nermesa fought to hide his impatience as the minutes passed and nothing seemed to happen. The Gundermen soldiers searched thoroughly, but he almost felt as if they, too, did not expect any hint of where his attacker had gone, much less finding the man himself.

  Captain Dante finally returned to him. The ponytailed officer had a frustrated expression.

  “No one’s seen a thing, so they claim. I’ve spoken with Yanus, the one behind the counter, and he claims no one who looked like he might be wounded came in. You got the man pretty good, you said?”

  “Another inch, and I suspect that we would not have to be searching for him, Captain.”

  The Gunderman nodded. “Then I doubt he’s come in here. Let’s hope that the others had more results.”

  But it did not take long after their departure from The Drunken Mule for the duo to verify Nermesa’s worst beliefs. None of the search parties had come across a clue to the fleeing figure.

  Dante’s scowl deepened as he sent his men toward other possibly viable locations. Glancing over his shoulder at the Aquilonian, he admitted, “I look to be wrong. If something doesn’t come to light soon, then he’s lost to us . . . for tonight, at least. I am sorry, my lord. Rest assured, I’ll have the surrounding area swept thoroughly come first light. If he’s anywhere in the vicinity, we might still have a chance to catch him.”

  Nermesa considered the landscape around Samalara. It was not the most hospitable, but it was hardly devoid of life and places where one could hide out while dealing with a wound. Even assuming that the garrison was eventually able to catch the miscreant, it might take days . . . and Nermesa had to be on his way.

  Despite his misgivings, he nonetheless thanked Captain Dante for his efforts. The Gunderman suggested sending Nermesa back with two armed men as escort.

  “You had to carry your pouch with you. I’ll not take the chance, however slight it might be, that something happens to you on the way back.”

  While that seemed doubtful to the knight, he accepted the guards. It had been unsettling enough for someone to sneak into his quarters; Nermesa would only prove himself foolhardy if he assumed that just as surprising an incident might not occur the short distance to the fort.

  Two stalwart soldiers who could have passed for Captain Dante’s brothers flanked the Aquilonian as he proceeded back. Nermesa did not speak to the guards, his thoughts on the night’s events. He could not help wonder exactly who had sought his life and if they knew what he carried. According to King Conan and the general, the papers were of the utmost importance to Count Trocero, but nobody would have known exactly why save the ruler of Poitain and Nermesa’s superiors. It almost seemed likely that, whoever the knight’s assailant had been, he had merely made the correct assumption that, whatever was inside the pouch had to be of some value to someone. Thieves had stolen for much-less-significant reasons.

  That still did not answer the question as to how he had infiltrated a reasonably well-guarded garrison. Gundermen were trusted for their skills and served not only as regular soldiers in the Aquilonian military but as mercenaries for many noble houses and even some neighboring—and friendly—realms. They did not take their duties lightly.

  Unable to sleep, Nermesa strove unsuccessfully for the next few hours to answer his own questions. He was still attempting to do so when he heard the searchers returning. Just as he feared, they had found nothing. Captain Dante could only report that a witness had seen a man ride off on horseback into the dark just prior to the arrival of the soldiers. As that witness had been half-drunk, even his testimony was suspect.

  Come the morning, the garrison commander suggested that it might be wise for Nermesa to take another day before moving on, but, despite his lack of good sleep, the Black Dragon had to continue toward Poitain. Fortunately, he had from past experience grown accustomed to missing rest due to one trial or another.

  Captain Dante also offered an escort of four men to accompany the knight to Poitain, but, again, Nermesa declined. He would only draw more attention to himself like that, and with a larger party the journey would almost certainly slow down.

  Thanking the Gunderman for his courtesy, Nermesa rode on at a fast clip. He had every reason to believe that the incident had been an isolated one, that his assailant had merely recognized a royal courier and had thought that the pouch contained something of value. Just as Aquilonia had its spies in each of the surrounding kingdoms, so, too, did they have theirs in Aquilonia. Nemedia immediately sprang to mind, as did Koth and Zingara, both situated somewhat near his destination. Zingara in particular still coveted Poitain’s lush lands—although its own political infighting made any incursion a very remote possibility.

  Nermesa kept an eye on every rider and wagon that he passed as he hurried toward his next goal. Most he saw were headed toward Tarantia, but he did pass a few going slowly southwest that the knight recognized as having stopped at Samalara. These the Black Dragon treated with extra caution, skirting around them whenever necessary. Fortunately, the day was well lit and the land flat, enabling Nermesa to see for some distance.

  Stopping only to rest the horse and deal with necessities, he reached the last garrison before the mountains just before sunset. The commander—an Aquilonian—welcomed him with the full respect of anyone bearing the seal of the king and, like Captain Dante and the other officers, gave Nermesa his quarters. When the knight requested sentries near each opening of the building, the commander did not hesitate.

  Nevertheless, that evening Nermesa still slept with one hand on his sword and the other clutching the courier pouch.

  IT WAS WITH tremendous relief and even some pleasure that Nermesa finally reached the fabled blue peaks. Although imposing, the stretch was not as long or as ominous to Bolontes’ son as the vast range stretching from eastern Aquilonia along Nemedia, then down into Corinthia and westward to Ophir. Of course, then Nermesa had been half on foot and pursued not only by soldiers who believed him a spy, but bloodthirsty confederates of Baron Sibelio.

  He reached the first stronghold in good time and the Poitainian knight who owned the castle reacted with at least as much respect for the leopard on the seal as he did King Conan’s lion. The differences between his stays in the garrisons and that in the castle were many, first and foremost in the comforts afforded him in the latter. While heavily fortified and containing a force every bit as capable as, if not more than, those in any of the garrisons, the castle was also a home. Nermesa’s host proved as every bit an agreeable figure as did Sir Prospero when visiting Tarantia.

  Yet, behind that agreeable nature, Nermesa thought he sensed some tension. What it concerned, he could not say, for Sir Octavio—a smartly dressed, graying man—kept it well hidden . . . but only after an initial slip during the Aquilonian’s arrival.

  Sir Octavio had met him just as the high, wooden gate opened. Clad completely in plate and with one of the legendary, two-handed swords strapped across his back, he made for an imposing image. Yet, the Poitainian seemed to gaze at Nermesa as if he were a savior.

  “So, you’ve come, then,” he had started, one gauntleted hand stretched forth to the newcomer. “Quickly done by the king, praise Mitra!”

  Patting the saddlebag containing the pouch, Nermesa, believing that Sir Octavio had been referring to the documents, had dutifully replied, “They’ll be in the hands of the count as soon as possible.”

  The Poitainian’s brow had furrowed at this comment. He h
ad then looked as if he had wanted to say something more but instead turned to the matter of seeing to Nermesa’s needs. Over the hours that followed, Nermesa had surreptitiously sought some clue as to what so bothered Sir Octavio, but did not succeed. He wished that he could bluntly ask, but the one time he started to do so, the other knight found reason to excuse himself. Nermesa could only assume that he would find out once he delivered the parchments to Count Trocero . . . at least, so he hoped.

  His concern and curiosity grew to the point that Nermesa woke earlier than usual. He accepted a brief breakfast, but was gone from the castle before dawn. The Aquilonian then urged his mount all out as he sought the castle of Poitain’s ruler.

  Nightfall came, and still Count Trocero’s sanctum remained beyond him. Nermesa should have stopped somewhere along the way, but kept telling himself that soon, very soon, he would reach his destination.

  The mountainous landscape had long ago given way to the flat, fertile fields of which he had heard so much. Even in the dim light of the moon, Nermesa made out fields of grain and other foodstuffs. The air grew warmer and wetter, but comfortably so. More and more structures arose on each side of him, darkened forms that were surely estate homes and farmers’ huts.

  With the lengthening of night, the Aquilonian soon became the only one on the road. He took advantage of this, using the full expanse of the trail in order to keep his progress at its swiftest.

  But as he raced under a skillfully cultivated overhang formed from rows of tall trees flanking the road, Nermesa noticed vague movement coming from far ahead. He immediately slowed his pace to one more manageable, at the same time readying one hand near the hilt of his weapon.

  The vague movement coalesced into several tall forms which, in turn, became at least half a dozen armored figures. By this time, they, too, had noted him, and now acted accordingly. The riders fanned out, covering not only the width of the road, but sending two of their number behind the flanking trees.

  Despite his near certainty as to their identities, Nermesa had no choice but to draw his sword. As the riders drew close, he saw that they, too, had weapons at the ready, in their case, huge, two-handed blades. Against them, Nermesa doubted that even his superior sword could hold long.

  The knights completely cut him off. The two who had turned off the path came around to guard Nermesa’s rear.

  “Halt!” roared the foremost of the newcomers. Like the rest, he was clad from head to toe in plate armor. “Who are you? What business do you have that makes you ride at so odd an hour?”

  “I am Sir Nermesa Klandes—baron, captain of the Black Dragons, and servant of his majesty, King Conan! My business is with Count Trocero, and that’s all I can tell you!”

  The visored figure leaned forward. “Bring a lamp, Lorenzo!” he commanded the man on his left. To Nermesa, the lead knight gruffly asked, “You’ve proper proof of what you say?”

  “Of all.” As the Poitainian called Lorenzo removed and lit a small oil lamp hooked to his saddle, Nermesa cautiously pulled free the seal. He held it out for the knights to see but refused to relinquish it to the leader of the party.

  The armored figure nodded. “There are few of those. A Black Dragon, too, you say?”

  With as much caution as when he had removed the seal for viewing, Nermesa opened his shirt so that Sir Lorenzo could shine the lamp’s light on the breastplate beneath.

  There were murmurs from a couple of the Poitainians. Even they respected the Black Dragons.

  The lead knight finally raised his visor. In the lamp’s flickering light, he seemed much younger than Nermesa had expected, even a few years less than the Aquilonian. Unlike the clean-shaven Prospero, this Poitainian sported a thin, black mustache. He had a short, pointed nose, and his brown eyes glittered in the illumination.

  “All true, then!” the man blurted with some relief. “Uncle will be grateful at the king’s speed!”

  Nermesa caught hold of one word. “ ‘Uncle’ ?”

  “Yes! I am Sir Gregorio, the count’s nephew by his sister.” Gregorio did not have to explain which count he meant. “He will be very happy to see you!” The Poitainian looked beyond Nermesa. “Are the rest far behind?”

  “The rest? I come alone, as commanded.”

  The armored figures glanced at one another. Sir Gregorio’s brow wrinkled. “The king knows our great reputation is all truth, but Uncle did ask for more assistance and surely for such a matter as this King Conan would not hesitate to turn all Aquilonia over in the search!”

  Not at all certain what they spoke about, Bolontes’ son replied, “I’ve come here to deliver important documents from the king to the Count Trocero. That is my duty. I know of no search.” Nermesa’s thoughts turned to his unknown assailant in Samalara. The Black Dragon’s hand went to the saddlebag containing the pouch. “Has someone taken the parchments I was to bring back in turn?”

  “Documents? Parchments? Pieces of paper, nothing more! We are talking of a man, Nermesa Klandes, and not just any man! We are talking about a hero of the realm, the great Sir Prospero, taken most cruelly!”

  Sir Prospero! Nermesa could scarcely believe it, yet from Gregorio’s tone and fierce eyes, he could draw only one conclusion. “Sir Prospero is slain? Is that why you search? For the cowardly murderers?”

  “Murderers?” The count’s nephew shook his head. “My lord Prospero was not slain, though all his companions were done in most foully! And though the knaves stole away the bodies of their compatriots, ’tis clear that they all gave a good account of themselves!” Gregorio’s expression hardened. “But the body of Sir Prospero is missing, and for such a thing to be, it can only mean that he has not been slain, but rather kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped?”

  “Aye . . . and if someone would dare instead kidnap one such as him rather than make certain that he was dead and of no threat, then, mark me on this, Nermesa Klandes, they have something most sinister in mind.” The Poitainian quietly swore, adding, “Most sinister, indeed.”

  4

  “NERMESA KLANDES, IT is good to see you.”

  Count Trocero had ruled the province of Poitain for as long as Nermesa could recall, yet, other than the man’s gray but still-flowing hair and a few wrinkles under the eye, the noble looked as fit as the young warriors surrounding him. Under the silken surcoat bearing the scarlet leopard, the count wore laced, golden armor. He had clearly been out most of the night himself in search of those who had stolen away his general and most trusted man.

  “It is good to see you again, too, my lord,” Nermesa returned somberly as he handed the noble the now seemingly not-so-important pouch and its contents. “Though the conditions are not what I thought they would be.”

  Count Trocero tucked the pouch in the crook of his arm. Under a bushy brow, penetrating green eyes bored into the Black Dragon’s. “Is it really true that the word I sent of this vile deed had not yet reached Tarantia by the time you left? To be certain, I sent it by both bird and messenger and the former surely should have covered the distance in but two or three days! The rider would have crossed paths with you at the very least!”

  “I saw no one with the look of Poitain upon him, but, then, I wasn’t expecting to see such a man.”

  “Still . . . he should have stopped at one of the garrisons . . . but they said nothing?”

  Nermesa could only shake his head in frustration equal to that of Count Trocero.

  They stood in the main hall of the noble’s castle, a sprawling, stone edifice that had clearly been built up over generations. It had three crowned towers, the largest in the center and stretched almost as wide as the king’s palace. Atop each tower and above the battlements hung the majestic leopard banner. There were windows on the upper levels, many of them with double shutters. The outer set were normal, arched shutters designed to keep the wind out; the second, inner ones had the type of slits in the middle that archers would find perfect for firing out of during a siege.

  Count Troc
ero’s nephew had initially led Nermesa through an iron gateway that was the centerpiece of a high, sturdy, stone wall with battlements. Watch stations on each of the four corners further added to the castle’s security. The returning party and their find had ridden over a wooden gate that crossed the span of a moat whose depth the Aquilonian did not even want to imagine.

  Considering the peaceful nature of much of the landscape through which he had ridden, Count Trocero’s castle seemed an aberration, but it had been begun during the height of Poitain’s most violent period, when Zingara had, in the space of thirty years, sought to overrun its northern neighbor at least five times. True, under its present ruler the province had experienced a fairly tranquil existence, but Trocero obviously maintained all his home’s defenses in much the same way that the mountain towers and fortresses did theirs. The Poitainian count was no fool; times always changed, and someday—perhaps even now, it seemed—his realm might come under siege again.

  “I’ve just returned from searching up north again,” the count remarked as he led Nermesa and his nephew into a vast sitting room. A fireplace massive enough for the three of them to stand inside stood on the far end of the room and over the vast, oak mantel, the family coat of arms hung. A long, polished wooden table stretched much of the distance from the fireplace to the entrance, and Trocero gestured for Nermesa to sit in one of the high-backed, cushioned chairs near it. Gregorio took a seat across from the Aquilonian, and the count sat at the head.

  “What has my nephew told you?” Trocero asked the moment he was seated. A servant appeared in the doorway at the same time, and the Poitainian noble nodded his way. The servant immediately withdrew.

  “Only that Sir Prospero was attacked somewhere near the mountains and that he was first thought dead, but now it’s more likely that he was kidnapped.” Nermesa hesitated, then added, “The others who were with him were brutally slain, though they gave a good account of themselves.”