The Silent Enemy

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Knows more about Cimmeria than a hundred scouts could find out in a hundred years. We are aware of Conan even up here, sir.” A dangerous look entered Haral’s gaze. “Now. Would you like to tell us a different . . . and more plausible story?”

  The knight considered, finally answering, “I was in Gunderland on a mission for my king, as I said. I sought traitors who passed through Cimmeria. In the process, I became lost in a storm and finally ended up coming out near the Border Kingdom.”

  “The Border Kingdom . . .” Haral’s eyes quieted again as he stared off into memory. “A mockery of a name. A collection of little fiefdoms and worse, most ruled by robbers and murderers. The solution of other realms to ease the troublesome raids of Cimmerians. Put the unwanted in their path and force them to defend themselves. Ha!”

  There were mutters of agreement from the guards and Valamon. Nermesa noted their hatred for those kingdoms that had left them to fend for themselves.

  “His sword, Valamon.”

  The fighter brought Haral Nermesa’s blade. As with the others, Haral studied the craftsmanship with admiration. “I am of a mind to keep this piece of art for myself. You probably won’t need it, as even though your story rings true, it still doesn’t forgive your trespassing in my domain.”

  “My lord—”

  “I was never any ‘lord,’ Aquilonian, although I aspired to be one. I was the son of a merchant of some wealth, albeit a commoner. Profits made our House rise in influence. I even considered the hope of marrying the daughter of a noble, a woman who did not mind my lesser blood.” Haral’s tone grew in bitterness. “But she also caught the eye of a count with the ear of the king, and suddenly my House was accused of betraying the throne. All would have been stripped from my family if I’d not agreed to take the blame and be exiled. The king got most of my family fortune and the count the woman I loved.” He gestured at the keep. “And this was my reward.”

  “Shall I take him away?” asked Valamon eagerly, seizing hold of Nermesa’s arm.

  “Unless he has some miracle by which to save himself, yes. I would offer you a place in my retinue, Aquilonian, but I doubt I could trust you to shift your loyalty to me. I know of the Black Dragons, whose emblem and look you wear.”

  Valamon signaled two of the guards to join him. Nermesa considered fighting his way out even if in the end it only meant his death, but then another notion came to him. Pulling free from the guards, he dared take a step toward their leader.

  “Master Haral. Will you permit me one last word?”

  “If you must.”

  The Black Dragon glanced around the chamber, assessing those there. He was all but certain that they shared the same land of origin.

  “Aquilonia is at war,” Nermesa announced to all. “Aquilonia is at war . . . with Nemedia.”

  The effect this had on Valamon and the other guards was immediate. They turned to one another, arguing over the truth of this statement.

  As for Haral, he eyed Nermesa in silence for more than a minute. When the muttering among his followers had finally died down, he stood. Descending from the dais, the former merchant strode toward Nermesa. In his right hand, he swung the knight’s sword back and forth with skilled ease.

  “I’ve ways of finding out if what you say is the truth, Aquilonian. Do you understand that?”

  “I stand by my words, Haral. Nemedia is moving on Aquilonia even as we speak.”

  Haral scoffed. “But Tarascus would be cutting his own throat, not an unpleasant thought. Why would he dare face Conan again? The Cimmerian has a way about him that makes men willing to die in great numbers for his cause.”

  Being one of those, Nermesa replied, “King Conan honors those who fight for him as if they were of his own blood. He asks no more from them than he does from himself, very likely less. As for why Tarascus dares face the Lion again, it is because, as before, he expects the king of Aquilonia to be dead.”

  “Assassination?”

  “Yes. A part of what I’ve been seeking information about. It led me to a Gunderman—”

  Valamon interrupted. “That Gunderman swine we caught some weeks past, Haral . . .”

  “Found trying to sneak through our realm just as you were,” the former merchant explained. “Died before we could get anything out of him, though. Yes, there might be a connection . . .”

  “That may be. I believe that he and others of his kind are in the pay of some powerful noble in Tarantia who has made a deal with Tarascus in order to take the throne.”

  Scowling, Haral remarked, “Which would only serve to make Aquilonia a vassal of Tarascus, as he dreamed of the last time. Tarascus would in essence gain himself an empire.”

  Nermesa nodded. It would be a sweet revenge for having been brought to his knees by Conan.

  Haral turned from the Aquilonian. He played with the knight’s weapon as he paced about the chamber. The sword moved in arcs impressive even to the Black Dragon.

  “It all sounds too convenient for you,” he said to Nermesa. “The perfect story to gain sympathy from those of us here, nearly all exiled by Tarascus or descended from others exiled by his bloodline. As an Aquilonian agent, you’d know how we’d react to anything that further increases the bastard’s reach. He might even someday decide that the Border Kingdom is of no use anymore and hunt us for his sport.”

  The tip of Nermesa’s blade suddenly came within an inch of the knight’s jugular vein.

  “Yet,” Haral went on, smiling grimly, “even considering all that . . . I find I believe you.”

  With one expert move, he pulled the blade back and tossed it into the air. Reacting instinctively, Nermesa caught the sword by the hilt as it came down near his left hand.

  “I choose to let you live and stay here this night as our honored guest, Aquilonian. Anything, however little, that we can do to frustrate that bastard is worth the while.”

  Turning the point of his sword to the floor, Nermesa bowed to Haral. “I thank you.”

  But Haral chuckled darkly at his gratitude. “Don’t thank me, Nermesa Klandes. After all, it’s very likely that I’m just sending you to die elsewhere, aren’t I?”

  And Nermesa could not argue with him.

  14

  THE FARE OFFERED by Haral’s followers was modest, and Nermesa was certain that his share meant less for each of the others in the settlement. Feeling guilty, he ate only what he deemed necessary, hoping to make the reduction minimal. The meat was of a flavor and texture unknown to him, but from comments heard the knight suspected most of it to be squirrel. That and rabbit appeared the most accessible meat available to the exiles although there were some hardy goats and even a few cattle, too.

  Nermesa sat on one of four benches surrounding a square, wooden table located in a chamber adjoining what Valamon referred to as Haral’s “royal court.” To the bald warrior and the rest in the settlement, the onetime merchant might as well have been a king. From what Nermesa learned, before Haral’s coming, the inhabitants had nearly starved to death. It was he who had organized them and turned their settlement into something vaguely approaching what most of them had lost.

  But one thing that no one, not even Haral, had lost had been their bitterness toward Nemedia . . . and King Tarascus.

  “Valamon and four others will guide you to the edge of the Border Kingdom. There are some much larger settlements—a city, in one case—that it would be well to avoid.”

  “I thank you for that.”

  Haral cut into his squirrel almost as if he were imagining it Tarascus. “Thank us by sending that bastard back to Belverus with his tail between his legs . . . if you can’t gut him, that is.”

  Nermesa slept in the keep on a weathered cot that he suspected had more residents than just himself. Valamon came for him just before first light, guiding the knight to where his horse had been kept. The animal had been treated very well, and it did not take long to ready him for the journey.

  By that time, Haral’s cook had prepared
a grainy mixture that looked far more suitable for the horse but that the Aquilonian devoured with gusto. There was no telling when his next good meal might come, and the only thing that he would have to eat in the meantime were the dried rations given to him and his escorts.

  The former merchant came out to bid him farewell just as the Black Dragon mounted. “Fare you well, Nermesa Klandes. Safe journey and good hunting.”

  “I thank you for your hospitality, Master Haral.”

  But the other man shook his head. “It was not hospitality, Aquilonian. It was a thirst for vengeance.” To Valamon, Haral added, “See to it that he makes it to his land. No matter what.”

  The bald fighter nodded grimly. “Aye, we will.”

  With that, Valamon led Nermesa and the others out of the keep. The inhabitants of Haraldon gathered as the party rode through, perhaps awed by the fact that the stranger not only still lived but was being treated with respect.

  Before long, they were out of sight of the settlement. The landscape south differed very little from what Nermesa had already witnessed. It consisted mainly of the same mud brown hills and stunted trees. Here and there were patches of more suitable land, and the knight noted with interest that these were farmed under guard.

  “Does this region belong to Haraldon?” he finally asked Valamon.

  “These, yes. Enough for us to survive and, in a good year, maybe trade a little with those just east of us.”

  “East? Not south?”

  “You don’t want to deal with those, friend. Some of us, we were exiled for speakin’ out. Others . . . they’re the scum that even that damned Tarascus didn’t want to deal with.”

  Nermesa silently vowed to keep his hand near his sheathed sword at all times.

  From what Haral had said, the Aquilonian had assumed that the border with his homeland could be reached by early the next day. That assumption proved far off the mark, but not due to the distance needed to be crossed. Rather, it had to do with those living in the area between Haraldon and Aquilonia, the ones both his host and his escort warned him about.

  “Zarac’s the worst,” growled Valamon when pressed.

  “Is Zarac a man or a place?”

  “A place. A foul, barbarous place. Started by an exiled brigand named Karothius, who was poisoned at his dinner by his mistress, Selenia. She ruled for all of five weeks before being knifed in her bed by her lover, a Brythunian half-breed called Alto. He—”

  Nermesa stopped him there. “Who rules now?”

  “Geris. Makes those before him seem like priests. Has all his hair shaved off save for a mane down the middle. Scars all over his face, some of them self-inflicted.” Valamon spat at the ground. “Shames me to think we both were once officers at the same time.”

  The Black Dragon frowned. “Officers?”

  His guide chuckled. “Aye, Aquilonian. Geris . . . and me . . . we both were officers serving the bastard. I was exiled for not following orders that I found too damnable. Geris, he was exiled for obeying similar orders, but with too much gusto even for old Tarascus . . .”

  After that, Nermesa kept his sword drawn.

  By the end of the day, they had long left Haral’s territory behind. From Valamon, Nermesa learned that one reason Geris had never sought to expand his hold northward to the settlement was that it was too far away for him to hold without spreading thin his forces. The one time that he had attempted such a thing, Haral had led his people out of the settlement, then, one by one, picked off Geris’s patrols until finally the cutthroat had pulled them back. Geris himself had never ridden north, preferring to rule from his sanctum in Zarac in order to prevent someone taking over while he was away. Such transitions of rule apparently took place often in Zarac.

  Because Valamon sought to avoid a confrontation with any of Geris’s men, the party’s route meandered a great deal. Nermesa fretted inside, concerned that each passing day might mean that King Conan was already dead. Yet to rush straight to Aquilonia was to risk his being slain and thus not serving his liege well should Conan still live.

  Valamon evidently sensed his concern, for the former officer finally told him, “We’re dead east of Zarac now. Two days away. Ursonia is the next nearest settlement, but ’tis a day and a half over those hills. We should have a clear path now to Aquilonia.”

  “How long will that take?”

  “No more than another day and a half. Have patience. Haral and me, we want you back home as much as you . . .”

  They made camp on the eastern side of a large hill near a small stream that Valamon knew of from past forays. The other men in the escort expertly prepared the encampment. Like most in the Border Kingdom, they were clearly used to foraging for everything.

  “Is all the Border Kingdom like this?” Nermesa asked, when he and Valamon sat around the campfire. One other man, a gaunt, beady-eyed fellow by the name of Yuronius, sat with them although he seemed not inclined to be part of the conversation. The other three guarded the perimeter. Nermesa and his present companions would replace them in two hours, with their shift ending four hours later, and so on.

  “I hear that there are some better places more northeast, near Brythunia,” the bald man said with a shrug. “But what’s hearsay and what’s truth, that’s another thing. No one travels much in this part of the kingdom, not, that is, if they want to live.”

  “Then how do you know this path so well?”

  “Travel’s one thing, spyin’s another.”

  The Black Dragon let Valamon’s answer stand at that. The less he knew about the situation was probably for the better.

  Once they had finished their rations, Valamon suggested that they get some rest before their turn on guard duty. “You’ll need all your strength tomorrow, Aquilonian. We’ll be riding hard through some truly uneven and unforgiving country.”

  Taking his advice, Nermesa found a spot near his horse and bedded down. Riders in the Border Kingdom tended to sleep near their mounts even despite any discomfort that might cause. As Valamon put it to him, “Without your animal, you’re dead out here. That beast’s more your life than any of us, understand?”

  Considering all that he had been through since riding to Poitain, Nermesa understood, indeed.

  Despite his exhaustion, though, the knight found it hard to fall asleep. His thoughts raced on to Tarantia and what he might find there. If the king was already slain, what would Nermesa do then? Certainly defend his homeland and his loved ones, but against whom? Whatever usurper had taken the throne? What if the people rallied around the villain? It was Conan himself who was the glue holding Aquilonia together. Without him, none of his followers—not even Pallantides or Trocero—would be able to keep stability. Even Queen Zenobia, as popular as she was with the common folk, would not last long. She was an outsider and someone who had betrayed King Tarascus. It was almost certain that she would die soon after—if not before—her husband.

  Nermesa tried to put his mind away from such matters. He could do nothing to prevent disaster from happening unless he reached the capital. Therefore, it behooved him to get as much sleep as possible to keep on his guard. Considering the terrain through which he had already ridden, Nermesa could only imagine what tomorrow’s trek would bring—

  The brief, muted snort of a horse stirred the Aquilonian to attention. He realized that, at some point, he had drifted off to sleep. His own mount stood right next to him. The three belonging to the men on guard duty were tethered to a bush in what he believed the opposite direction from which the snort had come. Neither Valamon’s nor Yuronius’s horse was also near the area in question.

  Sword held tight, Nermesa listened more. He heard nothing, but was certain that something was amiss.

  With caution, he crawled toward where Valamon lay. The bald fighter snored deep.

  “Valamon . . .” Nermesa whispered as he neared. “Valamon . . .”

  The snoring did not stop, but the former soldier’s hand suddenly moved in what Nermesa realized was a signal t
o him. Valamon was not asleep; he, too, must have heard the snort.

  The hand made a gesture indicating that the Aquilonian should return to where he had been sleeping. Nermesa did not argue; if Valamon had a plan, the knight was willing to follow it.

  There was a rustling of leaves—

  Several cloaked men charged into the encampment, clearly certain of the advantage of surprise. Had they been only facing the three guards, that advantage would have been tremendous, but suddenly Valamon leapt to his feet. He let out a cry to which both Nermesa and Yuronius responded. Instead of three swords, the villains now faced double that.

  But that hardly meant that the battle belonged to Nermesa’s party. As the knight charged the man nearest him, he estimated that there were possibly twice as many attackers as defenders. Bolontes’ son quickly sought to even the matter out, his sword cutting an arc through his foe’s unarmored chest with little effort. However, as the man fell, two more charged the Aquilonian and the only thing he could do was just fend them off as they pressed him back against his mount.

  One of Valamon’s men fell next, a sword through his belly. Valamon uttered an oath, then shouted, “Group! Group!”

  Yuronius immediately slipped to the bald fighter’s left. The gaunt man chopped at the leg of one attacker, then, when the latter fell to one knee, all but decapitated him.

  One of the other guards managed to make it to Valamon’s right side, but as the remaining defender turned to follow, he was caught twice in the back. The dying fighter stumbled to the ground, then fell dead just before the campfire.

  Nermesa’s three companions created an impressive wall, fighting off half again as many men while attempting to back up to where the knight made his stand.

  One of the Aquilonian’s adversaries made a lunge, which was immediately followed by a thrust from the second foe. Nermesa foiled their two-pronged attack, moving aside and pulling the first man forward while at the same time parrying the second’s strike. He then slew the fallen attacker before the latter could rise.