At last, he finally climbed a hill high enough to give him the view that he had so badly needed . . . and only then did Nermesa discover that he had not been going south . . . but northeast. That he could be so badly off track stunned him to the point of falling down on his knees and cursing those same mountains. If they had only been visible more often, he would not have made such a terrible mistake.
Nermesa bit back tears. His hopes of surviving were all but nil now, yet once more the Black Dragon rose to his feet and moved on. He had no choice. For the sake of those he loved, he would march until he could march no more.
It was just past midday when he spotted the rider in the distance.
At first, Nermesa took the dark speck as just a piece of rock blown clean by the turbulent wind. However, he gradually noticed that it moved, too. Training and instinct took over. In this place, it was doubtful that anyone nearby was a friend.
The knight located a rise behind which to hide. Sword out, he waited for the oncoming rider. The hooded figure was clearly unaware of any danger. He rode quietly and calmly, almost as if without care. His head he kept low and under a wide hood that likely also obscured a helmet.
As the rider neared, Nermesa saw that he could not be a Gunderman. His garments were more primitive. There were glimpses of a tarnished breastplate padded with fur, and the gloves that held tight to the reins were cut so as to allow the fingers to be free. The boots were also made from skins, with leather strapping to keep them in place and hard leather sewn in the bottoms for support.
While a sword dangled from a sheath at the figure’s side, more menacing was the huge ax slung to the back of the saddle. Nermesa doubted that he could have hefted the mighty, twin-edged weapon. The ax was also tarnished and here and there chipped, but still quite serviceable. The handle was bound in leather, with rough-hewn areas at two points that were likely where its wielder gripped it for best use.
Nermesa braced himself for the struggle. He doubted that the rider could undo the ax in time, but the sword would be a problem, especially with the man’s superior position. Still, if Nermesa timed matters correctly, he might be able catch his opponent before the man could even draw the weapon. The knight did not wish to slay anyone, merely find some manner by which to return south.
Closer and closer came his target. The horse snorted once, perhaps scenting the Aquilonian, but his master paid him no mind.
Nermesa waited a moment more . . . then leapt out. He brought the sword up with lightning speed, setting the point near the rider’s throat before the man could even react.
“Make not the slightest move!” he demanded, seizing the reins with his free hand. “I mean you no harm, but I will do what I must if you disobey!”
The man stared unblinking at him, his mouth set in defiance. Frost tinged his short, graying beard. The set of the eyes, the broad chin, and stern nose reminded Nermesa of someone and a moment later he knew just who.
King Conan.
Nermesa had captured a Cimmerian.
It should not have been a surprise. Still, the realization caused the knight to hesitate. That hesitation should have cost him, but the Cimmerian remained as still as death.
And Nermesa eventually noted that the man was dead.
The cause was not immediately discernible, but that there was no life became obvious when the Aquilonian noticed no cloud of breath. Reaching up, he tapped the man on the breastplate . . . and nearly had the body fall off as a result. It was only by dropping the sword and grabbing hold with both hands that Nermesa prevented that from happening.
As reverently as if the dead Cimmerian were a comrade, Nermesa hefted the body to the ground. It took all his strength, and he still nearly ended up with the corpse atop him. The warrior had been a powerfully built man in life, with very little fat and much muscle.
Only after he made certain that the horse could not run away did Nermesa inspect the body. He finally found the reason for the death, a small but still significant wound in the stomach just below the breastplate. The wound looked to have been made with a dagger and, although it had been covered, blood had continued to seep through the wrappings.
Nermesa gazed at the horse, trying to estimate how long and how far away the incident had taken place. The horse appeared in good health, although it was a bit thinner than normal. The frost on the man’s beard and the caking of the blood indicated to the Aquilonian that perhaps it had been a day since the Cimmerian had last breathed, although Nermesa admitted to himself he was no good judge of such things.
He suddenly remembered Wulfrim’s almost offhand comment about having run into a Cimmerian while on route to the trap that they had been laying for Nermesa and Prospero. Two of the Gundermen’s number had fallen to that Cimmerian, but mention had been made of the northerner’s suffering a mortal wound akin to the one this frozen giant bore. Was it the same warrior, then?
From the king, he knew that the Cimmerians were not a united people save when outsiders dared attack, such as the Gundermen at Venarium. It was highly unlikely that this soul had come from some region that could claim blood ties to Aquilonia’s monarch, and yet, simply knowing that the warrior had been of the same people—not to mention his having fought the knight’s own foes—made Nermesa treat him with the respect he would have any Aquilonian soldier.
Looking around, the knight discovered a small depression in part of the nearest hillside. He dragged the body over to it, then placed the corpse in a sitting position with the back against the wall. Nermesa left the sword sheathed, instead choosing to carry the ax over to the dead Cimmerian and place it in his still-gnarled fingers.
As he did this, Nermesa found himself talking to the body as if the man yet lived. “I pray that this will be a reasonable trade for needing your mount. If there had been another choice, I’d have made it, believe me.”
The sharp blue eyes stared in his direction, but, of course, no response came.
“May your weapon be ever sharp and your enemies dead at your feet, the laments of their women the song in your ears,” the Black Dragon went on, trying his best to recall the Cimmerian oaths that King Conan had said to him on those occasions when Nermesa had been honored for past duties. As a last wish, the knight added, “And may Crom know that you never asked for his help for anything, even at the end.”
He was not certain if what he had said was suitable, but from everything he understood about Cimmerians, Nermesa thought it an apt touch.
“Farewell.” He started piling snow atop the figure, not stopping until the body was well covered. Hopefully, that would prevent any animal from finding it. Up here, where the snow rarely if ever melted, he imagined the warrior sitting for centuries to come, perhaps one day to wake again when the world was a far different place.
Returning to the horse, who nuzzled his hand as if grateful for a living master again, Nermesa went through the pouches on the saddle. Most were empty, but, to his relief, he found dried meat and fruit, along with a pouch that turned out to be some concoction that burned his mouth and made him feel wonderfully warm for the next hour. There were no personal belongings, which made the knight believe that the Cimmerian had been on some sort of scouting mission when treachery had befallen him.
Mounting up, Nermesa suddenly felt the urge to look up to the sky. There was no face in the clouds, as he had imagined the one time, but for some reason the Aquilonian could not help feeling that someone was watching him.
“I was told that you don’t help much,” he muttered to the unseen deity. “Especially those who ask you for help.” Nermesa patted the horse on the neck, adding, “Well, I didn’t ask for any help, Lord Crom, but I’ll take this, anyway, and if you’ve any part in it, my thanks to you.”
And with that, he prodded the horse in the flanks and rode on.
WHILE THE HORSE and the food did much to raise Nermesa’s morale and chances, the landscape continued to vex him. The route that he planned to take to return to Heinard proved impassable thanks to a very r
ecent avalanche. Nermesa was forced to turn back for some distance, then head almost directly east for the next day and a half. During that time, he more than once glanced up, wondering if Crom was laughing at the jest he had played on the Aquilonian. Apparently, even giving thanks for something he had not prayed for was enough to put Nermesa on the wrong side of the Cimmerian god.
The snow lessened gradually as he rode, enabling the horse to forage properly and Nermesa finally to catch some fresher fare. He pushed the beast as hard as he could, but it still took three more days before the hills thinned out enough for him to see far ahead.
While certain that he had nearly reached the border of Cimmeria, Nermesa could not say for certain what part of Gunderland he was about to enter. The land before him was not nearly so lush as by Heinard, with rockier hills and stunted trees the most obvious features. The knight knew that he was much farther east, but that was all.
He made camp among the first of the unsightly hills, trying to decide whether or not he should soon turn west again. At this point, it was tempting to head directly to Tarantia. Nermesa finally decided that on the morrow he would ride a little farther in, then decide.
The sky was still overcast when he woke, but not so much as in Cimmeria. Nermesa started off just after dawn, suddenly feeling the press of time upon him.
Toward midday, he spotted the first trails of smoke, large enough to indicate a settlement of some size ahead. The knight urged his mount to a swifter pace, eager to see it better.
But only a few paces on, an arrow struck the tree next to him.
Before the Aquilonian could reach for his sword, several figures clad in well-worn tunics and pants surrounded him. Most were unshaven and, in several cases, very unkempt. To Nermesa, they had the look of brigands on them.
The leader was a bull of a man with not a lock of hair atop his round head. However, he had one of the longest, shaggiest beards that Bolontes’ son had ever come across.
“Move the hand, and we’ll remove the head,” the bald man growled with an accent of which Nermesa was unfortunately familiar.
It was Nemedian.
The Black Dragon slowly withdrew his fingers from the sword hilt. “I mean no harm. I’m merely passing through on the way home.”
This brought laughter from his captors. The bald man grinned, revealing several gaps in his teeth. “Oh, I can see that! Everyone loves to travel to Cimmeria by way of the Border Kingdom! ’Tis a fine, tranquil journey, good for the cleansing of the soul! Isn’t that right, lads?”
“Tell ’im, Valamon!” snickered someone.
The leader of the group stepped up next to Nermesa. As the Aquilonian watched in frustration, Valamon drew the knight’s sword from the sheath.
Several of the brigands let out exclamations of admiration when they saw the weapon, and it was all Nermesa could do to keep from trying to grab it back. Valamon brandished it a few times, testing its weight and balance.
“Nice! Very nice!” He glanced at the hilt. “Aquilonian made, eh? Spoils of war, just like that breastplate, I’d say! Well, you’re one scout of old Tarascus’s that won’t be going back to kiss his boots—”
“I am no Nemedian! I am Nermesa Klandes, servant to his majesty, King Conan of Aquilonia!” If his life was to end here, Nermesa would not die being believed by anyone—even his executioner—to be a spy for the foul king of Nemedia.
He expected his declaration to fall on deaf ears, but Valamon cocked his head and studied the somewhat disheveled knight. After a moment, the bald brigand remarked, “Look more like a Cimmerian half-breed than anything else.” He slipped Nermesa’s sword into his belt, adding to the other men, “We’ll take him back to Haral. He’ll know what to do with this one.”
At Valamon’s signal, two burly figures flanked the knight’s horse. To his credit, Valamon did not order Nermesa’s hands bound, not that the Aquilonian would have made it very far. There were too many archers with ready bows among the group and Nermesa could see that they were all experts, possibly as good as Bossonians.
As the party journeyed, Nermesa tried to comprehend what he had learned. Instead of into Gunderland, the Black Dragon had ended up riding even farther east, crossing into what was apparently the western tip of the Border Kingdom. He knew little of the land save that its governing structure was something like that of Corinthia, with various areas ruled by different settlements.
Actually, there was something more he knew, something he hoped would work for him, not against him. Most of the inhabitants of the Border Kingdom were exiles, outcasts from either Brythunia . . . or Nemedia. Many were criminals, yes, but there were also political rivals, men who had spoken out against the ruling powers, such as King Tarascus. If that was the case with this Haral to whom they were taking him, then Nermesa might have a chance to convince Valamon’s master that he was a friend, not an enemy.
Of course, it was just as likely that his captors would be satisfied with slaying him and splitting what little he had among them. To many of those surrounding Nermesa, his sword alone was worth taking his life.
They wended their way through the squat brown hills, the landscape doing nothing to improve itself the deeper they journeyed into the Border Kingdom. The region was lightly wooded, but most of the trees were gnarled and stunted compared to the lushness of Aquilonia’s forests. Now and then, Nermesa also noted some wildlife, mostly squirrels, rabbits, birds, and the like. There was enough out here to support the inhabitants, but surely not much more. Life would be hard even for the hardiest.
Gradually, they came to the source of the smoke, a settlement of low-built, wooden, stone, and mud structures that made Heinard seem as glorious as Tarantia. The roofs were thatched, and the streets consisted essentially of earth and straw packed down by feet.
There were not just men, as Nermesa had assumed, but women and children, too. Even dogs and a few cats. All had the same, untrusting look to their eyes, as if they expected only threat from the outside. Their garments were almost uniform in their lack of color and faded patterns.
To Nermesa’s surprise, a squat stone keep materialized at the far end of the settlement. As he neared it, the Aquilonian could sense that it had been built long before anything else, perhaps even been a part of the defenses set in place when the region had been under the auspices of ancient Nemedia. A different banner hung over the rusting, iron gateway, a banner with a red fox upon it, the first splash of color that the knight had seen since his arrival. That the red was akin to the color of blood did not pass Nermesa unnoticed.
“Dismount,” ordered Valamon. When Nermesa had done so, the bald fighter pointed at the keep. “In there is Haral. He’ll decide whether we let you live or skin you.”
Nermesa nodded. As Valamon had spoken, the gate had started to rise. With many a creak, it finally reached the top of the archway.
Two guards with spears stepped out as Valamon alone led his captive inside. The keep was not a large place, and the interior grounds were in much disrepair. Most of the stone in the floor had cracked, and moss and weeds grew out of many of the gaps. Someone had made an attempt to keep the stables to Nermesa’s right passable. Three mean-looking horses eyed the knight as if daring him to come close enough to be bitten. Nothing in the Border Kingdom seemed to have retained any semblance of hope or pleasantry.
Another surly guard swung open the door to the inner keep. Valamon and Nermesa stepped into a stone corridor with an arched ceiling that reminded the latter more of part of a place of worship.
Crude torches in wall niches gave some dim light to the passage. The two walked by several guards who, to their credit, stood at attention almost as well as those in King Conan’s palace. Nermesa felt certain that these men in particular had once served in similar roles sometime in the past.
And at a pair of tarnished bronze doors ahead, four of the most polished guards yet kept watch. They wore breastplates upon which could still be made out a crest with the silhouette of a fox in the center.
Nermesa’s suspicions as to the kind of man he was about to meet grew.
At Valamon’s signal, one of the guards knocked on the doors. A second later, they opened up.
“Bring him in, Valamon, bring him in,” commanded a voice with more life to it than anything Bolontes’ son had seen so far.
Valamon prodded Nermesa forward. Once the two were inside, the bronze doors immediately shut tight.
The chamber was not much larger than Nermesa’s old bedroom back in his parents’ home. Yet roughly a dozen guards lined the side walls, and two more stood behind the stone dais at the end. A long carpet with a few hints of bright red remaining ran all the way up to the first step. The edges of the carpet were frayed, as were those of the twin banners hanging on the far wall. Again, Nermesa noted the symbol of the fox.
And finally looking at the man upon the weathered wooden chair set atop the dais, the Aquilonian could guess how the symbol had been chosen. Haral was a man with thick, silver hair save for a streak on each side that still retained their original fiery color. His nose was long and pointed, as was his chin, and two gleaming green orbs studied the knight in turn with much intelligence.
Haral was dressed immaculately compared to his followers, his tunic and pants almost reminiscent of some high-caste merchants back in Tarantia. His outfit was forest green for the most part, but with golden stitching on the sleeves. He wore leather boots polished to perfection, and on his right hand a ring with a red opal glittered in the light of the torches.
“Welcome to Haraldon,” the figure on the throne announced almost cheerfully. “Consider yourself my guest—Master—”
Nermesa bowed as he would to any noble. “I am Nermesa Klandes, servant of his majesty, King Conan. I meant no intrusion into your land, but—”
Haral waved him to silence. “You come from the direction of Cimmeria. Why?”
Nermesa thought carefully about what and what not to tell his captor. “I was in Gunderland, gathering information on southern Cimmeria. The king—”
The Silent Enemy Page 17
