The Silent Enemy

by Richard A. Knaak

  Nermesa shook his head as he started climbing. After spending so much time in the court of King Conan and watching the political games played by the various ambassadors and others, it was too easy to fall prey to believing in plots within plots within plots even without any true evidence to support such.

  The recent deluge made his climb more slippery than he had imagined and certainly more troublesome than when Prospero had been forced to ascend. Nermesa had no doubt that more than one of the Poitainian’s foes had paid the price for pursuing him on the hillside. There were signs of recent rockfalls that did not seem to have anything to do with the rain. However, a falling body could easily crack off an outcropping here and there . . .

  Cassiun had pointed out a small lip as the area where Count Trocero had estimated that Prospero would have made a stand against enemies above and below. While Nermesa was not so sure the knight had used it, certainly someone might have.

  It took a bit of manipulation to reach the location in question, and by then Nermesa had cursed himself more than once for having begun the climb so encumbered. He felt as if he carried not one but two full-grown people on his back . . . both of them Black Dragons as well. He took a quick glance up, wondering if it would be better to continue to the top after his inspection.

  But as Nermesa’s gaze returned to the small ridge, something on the opposing edge of it caught his attention. It lay wedged in the rocks and glinted slightly even in the gloom.

  With great caution, the Aquilonian moved near enough to reach the object. It did not turn out to be a piece of rock crystal, as Nermesa had feared, but a coin.

  The image of a stern, proud man’s profile had been embossed on one side. Nermesa had no trouble recognizing the face. It was King Conan. Nermesa had found an Aquilonian gold piece. He shrugged off the discovery. While it might have slipped from a pouch worn by Prospero, it was also just as likely that perhaps the Zingarans had carried some for use during their time in Poitain. There was no way of telling.

  He decided to hold on to it, just in case. Tightening the grip of his left hand on the hillside, Nermesa fumbled with the right for a pouch in which to put the possible evidence.

  The rock upon which his right foot pressed suddenly gave way.

  The coin went flying from his hand as he grabbed for anything to keep him from falling to his doom. More rock broke away beneath him, barely giving his left foot any purchase.

  Unwilling to risk himself further, Nermesa started climbing. Below, he heard the clatter of loose stone. With an oath to Mitra, the Aquilonian forced himself higher and higher. He tried not to think of the lost gold piece, hoping that either he or one of his companions could retrieve it once Nermesa made it back down.

  A drop of water splattered his face, then another, and another. Nermesa pushed himself harder.

  A crack of thunder shook the area . . . and the rain came down in earnest.

  Gritting his teeth and trying to keep the moisture from his eyes, the Aquilonian pushed on. He had to grapple several times with the rocks, their surfaces already slick.

  Thunder roiled again . . . but as it slowly died away, another, harsher sound caught his attention.

  The clash of sword against sword.

  Nermesa could not twist his gaze down without losing his balance. He had to continue climbing even though every fiber of his being roared for him to see what was happening to Cassiun and Arturus. The top of the hill taunted him, so close and yet not close enough.

  And worse, a figure suddenly leaned over the edge, sword in one hand, face obscured by the heavy rain cloak over his head. What little Nermesa could see of the man’s garments made it clear that underneath the cloak was something other than Poitainian plate armor.

  Nermesa knew then that he and his comrades had just found Prospero’s assailants.

  Or rather . . . they had come to hunt for the knights.

  5

  THE SWORD THRUST down at the hapless knight—then stopped mere inches from his head.

  From within the hood came an angry, muffled voice. “No . . . he wants you alive . . . for a time, at least . . .” The sword remained poised where it was, and the villain’s hand dropped toward Nermesa’s nearest. “But give me one excuse, fool, and I’ll—”

  The Aquilonian pulled his own hand away from the strong, gloved fingers just before they could seize hold. Risking his balance, the Black Dragon took the other’s wrist. Nermesa pulled with all his might, shifting to the side at the same time.

  With a startled grunt, his adversary fell forward. A scream escaped the man’s lips as he tumbled past Nermesa. The Aquilonian briefly had to hang on for dear life as the figure’s flailing limbs battered him hard.

  Nermesa had been given no choice but to save himself so. The man’s very words had indicated that even had the knight surrendered, his reprieve would have only been a temporary one. Once his captors had made whatever use they wanted of him, the Aquilonian would have been summarily executed.

  Regaining his position, Nermesa continued his ascent. As he pulled himself up, he quickly scanned the immediate vicinity for another foe, but there was no one to be seen. Still, he knew that he had to be cautious; the pouring rain made for limited visibility, which meant that someone could even now be closing on him.

  Coughing from effort, Bolontes’ son finally took a moment to peer down. What he saw distressed him further. Cassiun and Arturus had indeed been attacked by other hooded figures. Cassiun lay sprawled like a rag doll over a large rock, his sword on the ground nearby. Arturus, meanwhile, battled three clearly expert swordsmen who came at him from different directions. A fourth assailant lay motionless near the remaining Poitainian’s feet, and another had fallen in a crumpled heap next to the dead Cassiun.

  Nermesa drew his weapon, but could find no quick path back to Arturus. He wondered if Gregorio and the others had likewise been attacked. It was best, Nermesa decided, to pray for Mitra to watch over them and for him not to hope for any aid.

  Gauging the paths to his left and right, Nermesa headed down the latter. It looked the more likely to wrap around quickly and bring him back down to where Arturus desperately fought.

  However, from behind him there suddenly came the rapid thud of hooves. Nermesa glanced over his shoulder just in time to see two riders urging their mounts up toward him. The animals ran along the path as if half mountain goat, closing on the Aquilonian with astonishing swiftness.

  Aware that he could not outrun them, Nermesa shifted into a fighting stance. As the first rider neared, the knight met his blade. The two men traded blows . . . then a garbled shout from the second of Nermesa’s foes caused the first suddenly to withdraw.

  Barely had that happened when something filled the sky above the Aquilonian. At first he took it for some massive bird, but then recognized it as a net. Fortunately, the heavy rain for once worked in Nermesa’s favor. The net did not fly as far as its thrower had no doubt hoped. The knight was able to back up just enough to avoid becoming enmeshed in it. The side landed on his sword arm, but a quick tug by Nermesa freed both his limb and his weapon.

  As he did this, the Aquilonian took the opportunity to look back down to where Arturus had last been. Much to Nermesa’s dismay, though, Arturus was nowhere to be seen. Instead, two of the hooded figures below were now seeking purchase on the hillside, clearly trying to join the others. Nermesa could only assume Arturus had fallen, too.

  The hooded form who had tossed the net now retrieved it while the second, still on horseback, maneuvered his animal so as to cut off Nermesa’s escape. Nermesa wondered why both men had not simply charged him rather than waste time with the net. Then he thought of Prospero, not slain along with his comrades, but rather kidnapped.

  Did the villains now hope to do the same with him?

  Nermesa’s heart sank, but not for himself. If these brigands had been waiting all this time—at tremendous risk to themselves, considering Poitain’s love and admiration for Sir Prospero—for a chance to capture so
meone else of importance, then that likely meant that their first victim was dead.

  That was a fate surely intended eventually for a captured Nermesa once he proved of no more value to this sinister band.

  Despite his fear that Prospero was slain, the knowledge that his adversaries wanted him alive encouraged the knight. He had no such qualms. Their hesitance he could use to his advantage.

  The net-thrower readied for another toss. However, before he could, raise the net, the Aquilonian lunged at him. As expected, the hooded figure instantly dropped the net in favor of his sheathed sword.

  But Nermesa scooped up one side of the abandoned net and used it almost like a shield. He draped it over his foe’s sword arm, then immediately thrust.

  With grim satisfaction, the Black Dragon felt the blade sink into the figure’s midsection. As earlier surmised, the villains did not wear metal armor, only thick leather that had seams. To an expert hand such as Nermesa’s, those seams were as wide as valleys. Nermesa’s opponent dropped to the side, then rolled off the hill.

  The Aquilonian immediately grabbed for the reins of the dead man’s horse, but the animal shied away. At the same time, the plodding of hooves warned Nermesa of not only the second rider, but the imminent approach of at least two more from the same direction.

  Sheathing his sword, the knight made one last try for the reins. He managed to snag them with two fingers. Tightening his grip, Nermesa forced the animal to obey him.

  As the Aquilonian mounted, lightning crackled in the sky. If anything, the rain grew even heavier. The sheer force of it nearly pummeled Nermesa from the horse.

  The only benefit of the increasingly harsh elements was the fact that his adversaries were also now encumbered by their long cloaks. He saw one struggle with the voluminous garment, the figure forced to slow down in the process. The others constantly had to swing their sword arms to the side to keep their weapons clear.

  Nermesa urged the recalcitrant horse forward. Its hooves clattered on the slick, rocky surface as it headed down the path. Now that he was mounted, Nermesa hoped to reach Gregorio and the others and warn them.

  But from ahead there suddenly materialized several wraith-like forms on horseback. Nermesa counted at least four more cloaked and hooded assassins. They now had him trapped.

  The knight looked around. A narrow passage between two jagged rocks offered the only possible escape. Nermesa tugged hard on the reins. Stumbling, his steed veered toward the gap.

  The fit was narrow and the path uneven. The Aquilonian was jostled around as the horse struggled its way through. Clatter behind him warned Nermesa that some of his adversaries followed close.

  The path widened . . . then dipped dramatically. Nermesa found himself plunging forward, the horse fighting to keep its balance as both descended.

  A hoof caught on a rock in the path.

  With a panicked whinny, the horse tumbled.

  Nermesa threw himself from the saddle. He landed hard, but not so hard as his unfortunate mount. The horse flipped onto its back, and its shrill scream gave evidence enough of bones no doubt breaking. The animal rolled over and over, its hooves once coming within less than a foot of the knight’s head before the horse tumbled on.

  Nermesa scrambled in among the rocks just before the first rider came into sight. The hooded figure also battled for control of his horse, achieving much more success than the Aquilonian. Another rider followed immediately after, his mount also keeping its footing. Nermesa did not recall Zingarans being adept with equines, but this lot surely was.

  Taking advantage of their focus on the path, the knight shoved deeper into the rocks. He could certainly not take all the men on. To do so would be to suffer the same fate as Sir Prospero likely had. Nermesa’s best hope was to try to lose them in the storm, then find help.

  As he fought through the jagged landscape, Nermesa wondered again how long the band had been waiting for just this moment. Some spy must have warned them of the party’s approach. Nermesa could only assume that the villains had been hiding out all this time among the blue peaks of Poitain, coming down now only to seek more captives to torture for information.

  How they had evaded discovery for so long was anyone’s guess, but perhaps one of the towers was run by a corrupt commander. Poitain was surely not without its criminals, those who cared more for gold than they did their own realm.

  Lightning flashed. Somewhere nearby, a horse whinnied. Nermesa drew his sword again.

  A shadowy form rode by. Nermesa heard the figure grunt something unintelligible. The anger in his tone was very clear, though. The Aquilonian remained perfectly still as the rider took a look around, then finally moved on.

  The moment that the area was clear again, the knight worked on descending. The chase had forced him in a direction nearly opposite to that in which he wanted to journey. He would now need to waste precious minutes just to work his way back to where he wanted to be.

  He squeezed through a break in one man-sized boulder, his breastplate scraping against the rock. Nermesa gave thanks that he was not quite so encumbered as a Poitainian knight. How they managed to maneuver so fluidly in their full plate was beyond him. He marveled that Prospero had given his pursuers such a hard time clad so, but then, Prospero was known for his epic deeds. Nermesa could only hope that in this particular case he could somehow emulate the legendary knight.

  The storm continued both to benefit and bedevil him. It kept him hidden from his adversaries, but at times put him in positions almost as precarious. More than once, his boots slipped on the wet rocks. At one ledge, Nermesa nearly tumbled off into a small but very jagged ravine.

  Fortunately, the path finally seemed to turn in his favor. The ground ahead gradually flattened out. In the distance, Nermesa saw some sort of flickering light. Hoping that it might originate from Gregorio’s men, he doubled his pace—

  And nearly ran straight into the horse and rider coming out from another gap.

  Startled, the gray horse reared. The rider fought to regain control, giving the Aquilonian the opportunity to come around at him.

  The man swung wildly at Nermesa, in his anxiousness nearly taking the Aquilonian’s head off. The knight crouched, then lunged. His blade bit into the hooded figure’s thigh.

  “You damned—” the rider began, then slashed furiously at his quarry. The advantage of height enabled him to force Nermesa away. He then tugged on the reins, turning his mount toward the Aquilonian with the clear intent of trying to herd him back. Clearly, the rider had finally recalled that Nermesa was still wanted alive.

  Utilizing that advantage again, the Black Dragon rushed up to the horse. As he expected, the rider kept the animal from rising and kicking at the Aquilonian. That, in turn, enabled Nermesa to get on his adversary’s other side and away from the sword.

  He brought the point of his own weapon up to the figure’s waist. “Surrender!”

  Despite common sense dictating that he obey Nermesa’s demand, the hooded man attempted to twist around in the saddle and attack. Nermesa had no choice but to thrust.

  His blade sank deep, the blood spilling from the wound immediately washed away by the torrential rain.

  Nermesa started to reach for the dying man, but some sixth sense made him look over the neck of the horse. There, to his frustration, three more assailants were emerging from the rocky hills.

  Cursing, Nermesa pulled his sword free and left the bleeding villain gasping for life atop his mount. The Aquilonian ran toward the hills. Despite the fact that he had wanted to reach the plains, at this moment, they afforded him no protection, nowhere to hide. Nermesa was no coward, but likewise was he no fool. There was nothing to be gained from standing against such numbers . . . nothing to be gained by him, at least.

  The other riders paid their dying comrade no mind, Nermesa evidently of much greater value. The Aquilonian slipped through the winding trail, for the time being vanishing from sight of the sinister band.

  His path grew more
treacherous again as the knight was forced to ascend a particularly jagged area. Nermesa had to watch each step. Fortunately, if the others wished to follow, they would have to leave their mounts behind.

  His foot abruptly slipped.

  Nermesa attempted to compensate, but failed. With his free hand, he grabbed for a better hold. The wet stone proved as smooth as ice.

  He fell.

  Past experience had taught him how to immediately fold himself up in order to lessen the chances of a broken bone or some other injury. Nermesa’s garments and armor gave him some protection, but at the same time made each hit jarring.

  His sword went sliding past him. As he tumbled, the Aquilonian struck the rocks flanking him again and again.

  Suddenly, the area on his left opened up. Unable to right himself in time, Nermesa fell through a hole—

  Darkness enveloped him. He collided with more rock. Nermesa momentarily lost consciousness.

  When he regained it, it was to find himself unable to see a thing. His body lay half-pinned in a tight area. It took several anxious seconds to work himself up enough in order to free his arms. With effort, the Black Dragon rose.

  Water dribbled in from above him. Beyond the hole, he could only see a gray haze. Nermesa estimated the distance up to be some ten or twelve feet.

  He quickly shifted position, at the same time seeking some handhold. The rock here was not quite so wet, and Nermesa judged that it would not be too difficult to climb out.

  His foot kicked something that momentarily rattled. Fumbling around, Nermesa discovered that his sword had fallen in with him. While grateful to Mitra that it had done so, the knight was glad that it had not accidentally impaled him in the process.

  Nermesa was just about to begin his climb when he heard a voice. What it said, he could not say, but the fury was evident in the tone. Planting himself against the deepest part of the tiny chamber, Nermesa clutched his sword and waited.