“It belongs to Gunderland,” was the response, followed by another shrug.
Deciding not to waste any more time on the matter, Nermesa had the soldiers lead him to the fort. As they journeyed through Heinard, he noticed that he had now become far more interesting to the inhabitants. Nermesa nodded to a few and tried to look as proper as could be possible. He represented the throne here.
True to the guard’s word, the fort lay just a few yards beyond the edge of the town. It was typical of Aquilonian frontier forts, boxy and square, with a walkway atop the wooden wall for the sentries. Each corner had a watch tower manned by archers. The contingent here seemed to consist entirely of those from Nermesa’s region of the kingdom, which somewhat startled him. Here, in the heart of Gunderland, the knight would have expected many of the soldiers to be locals.
The gates swung open as the trio approached. Half a dozen guards armed with spears or swords raced up to meet them, perhaps believing that Nermesa was some sort of prisoner.
He put an immediate stop to any such assumption, declaring his identity and demanding again to speak with the officer in charge.
“That would be me,” responded a voice that Nermesa found vaguely familiar.
He discovered the face even more so, especially the trim, red beard covering most of the it. “Konstantin?”
The other knight hesitated, then a broad smile graced his fiery features. “Nermesa! By Mitra! ’Tis you, is it not?”
Dismounting, Bolontes’ son briefly embraced his comrade. Konstantin was a few years older than he, but the other knight seemed almost a child, so great was his pleasure at the reunion. Nermesa, too, was greatly cheered by the discovery, although puzzled as to how his friend had ended up here rather than still being stationed in the Westermarck.
Konstantin was eager to explain. “Two months after you departed for the final time, Tarantia finally sent out someone to replace the Boar . . . General Boronius, that is . . . for which I was very happy! Not for me the command of all the west, no, by Mitra!”
“You would have done an able job,” insisted Nermesa, who meant what he said. Konstantin had been the only one left able to take charge after the commanding general had been foully murdered, and Nermesa’s cousin, Caltero, who had been Boronius’s second, had proven to be a traitor.
“Perhaps, but I am glad not to have found out whether that was the case or not. I was posted to a fort near the Bossonian Marches, then the commander here took ill and died. It was decided that I should be sent to Gunderland . . . as Aquilonian officer in charge of the province.”
Which meant that Konstantin was almost unofficial governor of Gunderland, no small promotion in itself. “Congratulations!”
Konstantin shrugged it off. “ ’ Tis Gunderland! What safer place is there in all the kingdom outside of Tarantia save maybe sunny Poitain?”
The other knight’s remark brought Nermesa back to the situation at hand. Leaning close, he whispered, “I must speak with you in private. Is that possible now?”
“To be sure! I’ve been remiss! Hadrian! See to his horse! Altus! Go see about getting some food for our guest! This is not only a good comrade of mine, but he is a trusted servant of his majesty!”
As the soldiers obeyed, Konstantin guided Nermesa toward his quarters, a wooden longhouse with two shuttered windows in front and a stone chimney on the right end. A pair of wary guards stood sentry outside the oak door. They saluted not only their commander but the newcomer as well.
“Welcome to my humble abode,” Konstantin murmured, once they were inside. In the outer room, there was a simple wooden table and chair set that the red-haired knight obviously used to look over reports and maps. A square oil lamp with a wide handle sat atop it, along with a pile of parchments no doubt concerning all of Gunderland. There were two more chairs similar to the first set some distance from the table, one of which Konstantin indicated his friend should use.
As Nermesa sat, the other knight walked over to a chest behind the table and fished out a stoppered bottle and two well-worn metal mugs. Giving one to Nermesa, Konstantin poured both of them some wine.
“Fear not! ’Tis not that foul stuff from the Westermarck! Happy to say that you can get decent Aquilonian wine up here in Gunderland if you have the right contacts back home.”
Nermesa gratefully swallowed some of the red liquid. It stirred him up slightly. “My thanks, Konstantin. I’ve sorely needed this.”
“From the looks of you, there is a lot more that you need! Drink up! Some food should be brought along shortly! In the meantime, tell me what brings you to me and in this—rustic—condition?”
Mulling over his drink for a moment, Nermesa finally replied, “I come in search of those who would seek the king’s death.”
“By Mitra! Are they associated with this Baron Sibelio of whom I heard?”
“Perhaps. There is a Gunderman in their employ whom I’ve been tracking since Poitain—”
Konstantin put down his own mug. “Pardon me . . . since Poitain? Have you really ridden all the way from there?”
“I have, with little time to stop for fear of losing the trail . . . which I finally did here in Gunderland.”
“You must tell me more if it’s permissible.”
Nermesa took another sip. “First, you need to know something held secret, something you must swear to reveal to no one.”
“You know that I can be trusted, Nermesa.”
“I do . . . Konstantin. Sir Prospero of Poitain was taken by unknown villains in his very homeland.”
The other knight leaned against the table, so startled that for a moment all he could do was shake his head. Finally, he replied, “Sir Prospero! Every soldier of the kingdom knows and admires him! His battle prowess is legend! Is he slain?”
“It was feared so, at first, but I believe that he’s still alive . . . at least for the moment. There is the suspicion that he was kidnapped in order to discover how best to get to the king in the palace and assassinate him. There are few outside of those in Tarantia who would be able to provide such information, and even considering Prospero’s skills, taking him would be easier than trying to kidnap General Pallantides in the capital.”
“Yes, I can see that. Go on.”
Nermesa told him of his own—supposedly simple—mission to deliver documents to Count Trocero and how that had turned into his volunteering to join a new search for clues. “But I myself was nearly taken, and my escape almost proved short-lived when I chose to seek help in the house of Lord Eduarco and his Brythunian she-devil of a wife. The woman kept a demon of a bird, a giant raptor, that fed on human flesh, nearly including mine.”
“Mitra preserve us—” There was a knock on the door and an unintelligible voice that the garrison commander apparently recognized. “Enter!”
A soldier stepped in with a wooden platter upon which lay a fresh loaf of dark wheat bread and slices of goat meat and cheese. The cheese had a robust scent that preceded it by several yards. The aide placed the platter on the table, then quickly and quietly departed.
“I’ve grown very fond of the local cheese and bread here,” remarked Konstantin the moment that they were alone again. “Rich in flavor both. Please, take all you need.”
Nermesa gladly did. The scent of the cheese did not prepare him for its mild texture and aromatic taste. The bread was very sturdy and a pleasure to bite into after so many days of berries and half-raw rabbit. While Nermesa devoured the first pieces, Konstantin sliced the bread and cheese more.
The pit in Nermesa’s stomach began to fill. Some of his tensions faded. He nodded thanks to his old friend.
Feeling much better, the Black Dragon finally continued his story. “Lord Eduarco had a Gunderman bodyguard,” he said between bites. “A man named Wulfrim . . .”
“I’ve heard the name before, but for more than one person. ’Tis a fairly common name, I am sorry to say.”
Nermesa described Wulfrim as carefully as he could. Konstantin nodded after
each detail to indicate that he would recall it.
“That’s him as best as I can do,” Bolontes’ son finally said.
“I will jot down all of that and pass it on to the men and the town leaders. Is there more?”
“A little.” Nermesa mentioned the sudden coming of the Poitainian knights to the estate, an act of Mitra that had saved him from kidnapping or worse. “In the chaos, Lord Eduarco’s jealousy overtook him, and he was slain by the bird. When Lady Jenoa returned, she decided it was safer to have me devoured, but I started a fire and the raptor tore loose. In its panic, it accidentally knocked her out of the tower window. I leapt atop it as it slipped through—”
“Fearing, no doubt, more for the Poitainians it might come across than your own hide.” The crimson-tressed Aquilonian grinned. “Do not look so surprised! That is just the Nermesa Klandes that I know! Of course, you managed to slay the bird in flight, then, by the will of Mitra, survived the fall! Am I right?”
Nermesa looked chagrined. “Listening to you, I fear to answer yes.”
“Fear not! I’ve regaled the men and the locals with tales of your exploits since I was posted here! Damn it, Nermesa! You will someday be a legend as great as Sir Prospero or General Pallantides! Already, they call you ‘Sword of the Lion’ in honor of your service to King Conan!”
Bolontes’ son had not been aware of that. He quickly shook his head. “No one should say such things. I merely do what I must.”
“And you do it so well.” Konstantin shook his head. “I was out there among the Picts that day when the witch would have had our heads for their poles, Nermesa. I know what you have done. What few men could have done.”
“We were talking about the plot against the king and the kidnapping of Sir Prospero,” Nermesa pointedly observed. “I believe that Prospero is still alive but a captive somewhere here in Gunderland. I also believe that Wulfrim must be in the vicinity.”
“You finish your meal while I go spread the word. I’ll return shortly.”
Nermesa devoured most of what the aide had brought, it being the first true meal he had eaten since the ill-digested one at Lord Eduarco’s estate. By the time he was finally finished, Konstantin returned.
“The men are informed, Nermesa. Those going out on patrol and sentry duty in Heinard will keep watch. If he shows his face, he’ll be noticed.”
“Good.” The Black Dragon considered. “What about the Gundermen? Would they help catch one of their own?”
“They are citizens of the realm just as you and I! It’s still early enough. We shall go speak with Dario, the headman, when you feel ready.”
Konstantin did not say it outright, but he offered Nermesa the chance to clean himself up. Nermesa thought about it, then thought about what might happen if Wulfrim did slip away and Prospero was lost. “We can go now.”
To his credit, the other knight did not argue. “As you wish. Dario’s likely to take you for a Cimmerian with that look, so let me lead the way.”
“How long will it take us to reach the castle?”
“The castle? We’re not going to the castle. Dario can be found near the town square. The castle is commanded by his brother, Arumus, in defense of Gunderland from the north.”
Brow arching, Nermesa asked, “From Cimmeria?”
“Gunderland is not all that vast a region. And the people have not forgotten their loss at Venarium even to this day. Tarantia is aware of it. It’s a long-standing tradition going back from monarch to monarch. Aquilonia for the most part leaves Gunderland to its own defense when it comes to the north lands, which Gunderland prefers. We and the other outposts are more of a token force showing that we will back up the locals in return for all they contribute to the kingdom’s armies as a whole. It’s worked very well for generations.”
Bolontes’ son nodded. He saw no further reason to pursue the subject. As Konstantin pointed out, Gunderland had always been one of the most secure areas of Aquilonia.
Konstantin secured them two horses, giving Nermesa a fresh mount. The pair rode into Heinard, ending up at a particularly sturdy-looking longhouse that cut across half the square. Unlike most, it was made completely from stone and was guarded by four erstwhile figures.
At sight of Konstantin, one of the Gundermen knocked on the door. He was admitted, the door closing quickly behind him. Nermesa glanced at Konstantin, who indicated that the two of them should dismount.
By the time they had, the guard had stepped out again, followed closely by a graying Gunderman who, despite his older age, looked capable of outwrestling either of the two Aquilonians. The newcomer wore a short beard and, at first glance, Nermesa took him for a relative of Wulfrim. A second look reminded the Black Dragon of Morannus. Of course, to Nermesa as well as many other Aquilonians, Gundermen did have a tendency to look much alike.
“Commander Konstantin,” rumbled the figure. “I recall no meeting arranged between us.”
“None was, Dario,” returned Nermesa’s companion. “I apologize for the intrusion, but a matter has come up that we must speak about immediately. It should not take much time.”
“For Aquilonia, I will make whatever time necessary. Please, inside.”
Without ceremony, they entered. The longhouse served not only as the location from which Dario governed Heinard, but was his family’s residence as well. The trio entered a common room in which a stone fireplace took precedence. It covered half the back wall and above it had been set the stuffed heads of two snarling black bears. Skins perhaps belonging to those same animals covered the wooden walls on each side of the massive fireplace.
A long, rectangular table made of cedar filled the center, benches of an equal length flanking it. There were several marks in the well-worn table that to Nermesa looked as if they had been gouged by knives or axes.
“Will you sit?” offered the headman.
“We will stand,” replied Konstantin respectfully. “And, as I indicated, we will take as little time as possible.” The garrison commander indicated his companion. “Dario, I am pleased to introduce Baron Nermesa Klandes, a Black Dragon in service to King Conan.”
“A Black Dragon?” Dario’s heavy brow wrinkled. “I know that name, too.” He glanced at Konstantin. “The one who sent the Picts fleeing? The Sword of the Lion himself?”
“That is he, yes.”
The headman bowed. “Heinard is honored by the presence of such a champion. I am personally honored to have you in my home. You will at least accept something to drink?”
“Some of your local ale, perhaps,” suggested the red-haired knight. To Nermesa, he commented, “Also well above that burning oil that passes for drink in the Westermarck.”
Dario called out, and a young woman who might have been his daughter came to him. “Ale for myself and my friends, Melia.”
As Melia departed, Konstantin said, “This is a matter of great import, Dario.”
“And so shall be kept to myself and those few who need to know. What is it?”
“We seek one of your countrymen, a Wulfrim.”
“I know a few Wulfrims,” rumbled the headman. “What does this one look like?”
Konstantin looked to the other Aquilonian. “Nermesa can describe him best.”
Nermesa gave Dario every detail he had passed on to Konstantin. The headman listened earnestly, making his guest stop only when Melia brought the ale. When she had departed once more, he urged Nermesa on.
When the knight finally finished, Dario took a great swallow of his ale. “A fair recollection, if accurate. Heinard is not so large a place that an outsider, even one of our own, would not be noticed by someone. If this Wulfrim is here, he will be found.”
“It must be quickly,” urged Nermesa. After a glance at Konstantin for assurance, he added, “The life of the king might be at stake and surely that of a noble warrior of the realm, Sir Prospero of Poitain.”
“Is that so?” Dario downed the rest of his ale in one energetic gulp that left both Aquilonians starin
g. “Then I’ll be sending word out as soon as you two have left.”
“Does that include your brother, in the castle?” asked Nermesa.
“Arumus? Surely, although I can’t fathom why this Wulfrim would even head up there. Nothing beyond the castle but foul Cimmeria and no Gunderman, no matter how treacherous, would make his way there.”
Setting down his mug, Konstantin stood, and said, “In the name of Aquilonia, I thank you for your cooperation, Dario.”
The headman grunted. Both he and Nermesa also rose. The two knights shook hands with Dario, who then led them out. A guard handed over the reins of Nermesa’s horse. As Nermesa mounted, he noticed another knight riding toward them at a brisk pace. He alerted Konstantin to the other’s presence.
“Broderik, third-in-command,” murmured Nermesa’s comrade. He frowned. “And not with good news, from his expression. Come. I want to hear this away from Dario and the others.”
They swiftly bid the headman farewell. Dario clearly also noted Broderik’s arrival but respected Konstantin’s choice.
As the third Aquilonian neared them, Konstantin signaled for him to remain silent. Broderik’s jaw clenched tight, his news clearly something he greatly desired to blurt out. Fortunately, his training held.
Konstantin waited until they were nearly within the shadow of the fort before finally pulling over to the side of the path. He peered back toward the town as if to make certain that no one watched them. Nermesa knew that Dario would have his own ears near the fort and might eventually discover what the news concerned, but Konstantin had acted as his position demanded.
“Low and calm, Broderik. Whatever it is you need to tell me, keep it low and calm. You are a knight of Aquilonia, after all.”
Broderik, a young, beak-nosed noble, swallowed before nodding. “Aye, commander. It’s just—” He swallowed again. “The news came by messenger just after you departed.”
Nermesa noticed that Konstantin’s subordinate shook slightly, and his own fears rose. “The king! Is the king all right?”
“Aye, my lord! For now he is, but that could change once they are out on the field—”
The Silent Enemy Page 12
