“No . . .” he whispered, how exactly he recognized those surroundings immediately coming to him. “No—”
“Good evening, my lord,” announced a voice from behind him.
Nermesa turned to find another Gunderman coming up toward him. He barely had time to register which Gunderman it was before Wulfrim and the others came crashing through the door. The knight immediately backed away in preparation for a last stand, but then more guards—more Gundermen—materialized from every nearby corridor.
“Please drop that,” the first figure said patiently. The voice was the same one he had heard earlier in the crypt. “They’ll seize it from you no matter how many you might bring down first. They know what is at stake, my lord. Do they not, Wulfrim?”
“Yes.”
“Now, then,” continued the other Gunderman. “Do as I said, Master Nermesa.”
The Black Dragon threw his sword down in disgust. He glared at the speaker, who quietly and calmly went and picked up the stolen weapon. The Gunderman studied it with a master’s eye, testing it in a variety of maneuvers.
“Hardly as good as your own,” he finally commented to Nermesa. “But, then, there are few swords finer than that which you received as reward for your loyalty to the Cimmerian. Fewer swords, indeed. How well I remember the first time I saw it.”
The Gunderman smiled. Nermesa silently cursed that smile, for, until this day, he had thought it that of a most trusted friend.
“It is good to see you again, Master Nermesa,” Morannus declared mockingly. “And you have no idea just how good . . .”
17
“WHAT IS GOING on, Morannus?”
Every man there turned to an elegant, spiral staircase situated to Nermesa’s far right, where an arresting, female figure now descended. The woman was clad in a shimmering silver dress that wrapped around her body like a lover and yet was the height of Tarantian elegance. The bodice was just low enough to be proper and still tantalize, a perfect accompaniment to its wearer. Her blond hair was bound up behind her head. Her face was the epitome of Aquilonian beauty, but somehow still as cold as if carved from marble. Her emerald eyes gazed at Nermesa in particular, her full lips pursing.
Baroness Orena Sibelio.
Nermesa had recognized her ancestral home—the Lenaro house—from the many visits that he had made as her former betrothed. To discover himself within these walls had been like plunging into the worst of nightmares. Now, worse, he also faced the mistress of the House herself.
“Merely a little sport, my lady,” replied Morannus. “Nothing to concern yourself about.”
“He should not be up here!” Orena hissed, the regal mask cracking suddenly. “He should be down in the crypt, like all things dead to me!”
For as long as he had known her, Telaria’s elder sister had seemed to Nermesa an icy goddess—tall, beautiful, blond, and with eyes that could command the attention of nearly every man save the one whom she was supposed to marry. For Orena, that had been a continual slap in the face and reason enough for her to hate Nermesa.
But there had been more, so much more, starting with his eventual breaking of their betrothal, rescuing Telaria from her brutality, and, finally, revealing to all that the man she had later married—Baron Antonus Sibelio—had been a traitor seeking the throne.
Nermesa had defended her afterward, assuring the king and General Pallantides—more for the sake of Telaria than anything else—that Orena had been ignorant of her husband’s devilish ambitions. Now, however, he saw clearly that he had been absolutely wrong.
“I was about to bring him up from the crypt, anyway, mistress,” Morannus continued calmly. He spoke not like a servant, but more as an equal. “The time draws nigh. His disgrace is imminent.”
“Is it?” The smile that spread across her aristocratic features was ghastly to behold, at least to Nermesa. He suddenly sensed that Orena’s hatred of him had become much more, that she leaned very close to madness. “Good! I want to see it! I want to savor it!”
“As you rightly should and as you shall.” Morannus made a low bow to his mistress that the other Gundermen, save Wulfrim, imitated immediately.
Orena’s gaze turned to the lone Gunderman, who quickly executed a belated bow. The baroness smiled graciously again.
Morannus cleared his throat. “In fact, it will take place very shortly. You may wish to make yourself ready, mistress.”
“Excellent! I will not be long.” With a nod, Orena turned and walked back up the staircase.
The bodyguard waited until she had vanished from view, then returned his attention to the prisoner. “It was meant to be Sir Prospero, Master Nermesa, but the fates have decreed that you will be the hand that finally sees the deed done. For that, I will personally honor you.”
“Morannus, are you blind? Don’t you see that your mistress is insane? Would you have her on the throne?”
“I let her believe what she desires to believe.” He signaled the men holding Nermesa. “Bring him.”
As they dragged the Aquilonian forward, Nermesa pondered the bodyguard’s words. Again, he did not sound like some loyal servant. Rather, Morannus seemed merely to be playing up to Orena. The Gunderman had other intentions in mind.
“So . . .” the knight growled. “Is there another who pays you so well, or are you mad, too, that you think Aquilonia would accept you as its king?”
Several of the Gundermen laughed at his remarks, and Morannus himself shook his head in pity. “You understand nothing, my lord, not that you should. It’ll become clear in time . . . when it is too late to change anything.”
Nermesa had assumed that they would take him back to the crypt, but instead they dragged him down the hall toward the rear of the vast house. He frowned, trying to recall what was back there. Merely decorative rooms and, beyond them, a terrace leading to an immense garden . . . a miniature woods, in fact. Nermesa had not been in the garden for years, even long before he had come to understand that his marriage to Orena could never be. Despite the trees and flowers, the garden had still somehow been like her, cold and foreboding.
Just before they reached the terrace, Morannus called a pause. Glancing at Wulfrim, he ordered, “Something to cover his mouth.”
Nodding, the other Gunderman hurried off, only to return a minute later with a long, wide piece of cloth. This he bound across a struggling Nermesa’s mouth.
“That’ll do,” Morannus said.
They brought him outside and for the first time, Nermesa saw that it was evening. He also saw that the garden was even more vast than he recalled . . . more vast and far more sinister.
And very likely their destination.
The Black Dragon struggled again. Wulfrim brought his blade to Nermesa’s throat, copying what the Aquilonian had earlier done to him.
“Don’t let animosity make you foolish, Wulfrim,” admonished Morannus. To Nermesa, he said, “Consider yourself fortunate that we do this out here and not in the crypt, as I suggested first to the baroness. She insisted, though, and since she is still of value—and I find the irony amusing—we will go to the shrine and do the deed there.”
Shrine? Nermesa’s brow furrowed in concern. Did they plan to sacrifice him in the name of Orena? Were all his captors insane?
Beyond the walls of Orena’s Tarantian estate, Nermesa could still hear the sounds of the capital’s inhabitants blithely going about their lives without knowledge of what was taking place here. The knight suddenly tried to shout, yet not only did the cloth effectively gag his cry, but Wulfrim used his rebellion as an excuse to slap the Black Dragon hard in the face.
“No more, both of you!” It was uncertain for a moment just who Morannus was more furious with, Nermesa or Wulfrim. The other Gunderman bowed his head and stepped away from the prisoner.
With Orena’s bodyguard leading the way, they ventured into the garden. Almost immediately, it was as if a true forest had engulfed them. Nermesa heard the sound of wind, but the noises of Tarantia had utterly
ceased.
“The artisans who created this were truly gifted,” commented Morannus. “The founders of House Lenaro wanted complete privacy, and that is what they got.”
Nermesa noticed that although the wind blew, in the garden he could hear no birds or insects. It was as if both shunned this place.
The Gundermen carried with them only a single oil lamp that one of them had procured on the way out. It did little to give detail to the garden, although Nermesa did make out some large, flowering plants of a type with which he was not familiar. However, what little he could see of them left him with a chill, for their silhouettes reminded him of some sort of vampiric thing with multiple heads.
Then a low glow ahead tore his attention from Orena’s macabre flora. It was faint, and its ghostly shading reminded the knight of moonlight. As he focused on it, that which surrounded the glow took on substance.
It was the height of a man, twice that in length and width, and built entirely of black stone. The back had a triangular shape ending in a sharp point. To each side, small, sloping walls thrust forward, giving the structure some resemblance to a high-backed chair . . . or throne, perhaps.
In the forefront, and from where the glow originated, stood what at first Nermesa took for a vast, stone bench about waist high. Only as he neared it did he see that the top was slightly angled, with the center point the peak. There, a white, multifaceted stone had been set and from it somehow emanated the light.
There were words and symbols carved on the front of the blocklike piece. Squinting, Nermesa made out one of the symbols first.
It was a bird. To be exact, a heron. In one set of talons, it wielded a sword.
The symbol of House Sibelio.
“The wizard Set-Anubis left little enough to bury,” Morannus abruptly whispered in his ear. “But she insisted on this monument anyway . . .”
The Gunderman holding the lamp brought it forward so that the entire front was at last visible. Now Nermesa saw the words and read the name. It was indeed, as Morannus had indicated, a memorial to the late Baron Antonus Sibelio.
“Chain him to the top,” commanded the leader of the group. “Just as in the crypt.”
Nermesa struggled but to no avail. They set him so that he was bent over the glowing stone. The angle of the top forced his back into an uncomfortable position, but his captors hardly cared. They made his pain worse by stretching his arms and legs to the point of breaking.
“I regret this, I really do, my lord. It’s unnecessary for the potion, but it keeps her happy.”
“Shall I go fetch her?” asked Wulfrim.
Morannus nodded. “Yes. And remember how to act.”
“I will.”
As Wulfrim strode off, the other Gunderman looked down at Nermesa. “The mistress provides us with not only perfect cover, but also a perfect place from which to coordinate our efforts. In return, I feed her vanity.”
Nermesa tried to speak, but the cloth garbled his words.
Morannus shook his head. “As I said, Master Nermesa, it was supposed to be the great Sir Prospero, the king’s right-hand man, who would do the deed. It was all planned so meticulously, so patiently, just as everything else has been planned, all these many years. If one path failed, we had others to follow. All that mattered was the final outcome.”
“She comes!” muttered another of the band.
Their leader glanced back to the house. Even from his vantage point, Nermesa could see the faint glow of another oil lamp. The glow grew as it neared the area of the shrine.
Orena had her long, luxurious hair swept up in a regal design. Instead of the silver dress, she now wore a robe that to the knight looked too much like one that might have adorned a priestess. Nermesa wondered if he was to be sacrificed, after all.
“I am here, Morannus,” she announced.
“Yes, mistress,” he returned with a bow. The other Gundermen followed suit.
“You have it with you?”
“It has never left my side since it arrived from Koth.”
The baroness nodded approvingly. “A wise thing, considering the sum it cost.” She stretched forth a perfect, alabaster hand. “You may give it to me, then.”
As the others, including the Black Dragon, watched, Morannus retrieved from a pouch at his belt a tiny, round vial made of black glass. This he gave to Orena, who cradled it in her hand as if it were some beloved infant.
Her gaze abruptly shifted to Nermesa and in the light of the lamp, it was terrible to behold. Orena’s eyes stared unblinking into his own. “All the shame, all the dishonor . . . it shall be righted at last! And in the process . . . I will become queen of Aquilonia!”
There was a gesture from Morannus that Orena did not catch but that Nermesa noted. As one all the other Gundermen save he knelt in the direction of the baroness.
Telaria’s sister acknowledged their kneeling as if it was perfectly appropriate. Then her expression hardened again as she continued, “It galled me to have to play to you and yours as if I should be grateful to keep my own home after you had everything else stripped from me! At your insistence, that Cimmerian thief even so magnanimously let me keep the name and title I had taken, a name and title that you made certain was reviled publicly . . .”
Orena had twisted around everything that Nermesa had done for her into something designed to further torment her life. It astounded the knight just how she had let it direct her very existence. He knew that he was guilty of having never truly been agreeable to their betrothal, but his reasons for breaking it off had been, in his eyes, good ones.
But none of that mattered to Baroness Sibelio. She stepped toward Nermesa, holding the vial for him to see.
“So little, but costing so much. Worth all, though, for what it can do.” Orena reached down with her free hand to pull the cloth from the knight’s mouth.
Morannus placed his hand atop hers. “No, mistress. Remember, he need only absorb its scent.”
“I want to be certain!”
As if placating a child, the Gunderman explained, “It is all but scent, anyway. The moment the lotus oil touches the air, it will dissipate to mist. You must open the bottle near his nose. The rest will take care of itself.”
Orena looked not quite convinced, but at last she nodded. With eagerness, the baroness brought the vial near Nermesa’s nostrils. As she worked the stopper, she murmured, “I knew much more about Antonus’s plans than you ever understood, my love. Enough so that when he died, I was able to keep many of those contacts active. That was how we procured this.”
Her hand pulled free the stopper . . . and a smell that to Nermesa was reminiscent of dried, decaying lotus blossoms filled his nose. He tried to keep from inhaling it, but the cloth across his mouth left him only one way to breathe.
“Keep it very close,” urged Morannus. “And now speak his name clearly to him. He must hear your voice.”
Orena did as he said. Her lips came close to Nermesa’s ear. “Nermesa . . . dear Nermesa . . .”
Satisfied, she pulled back just enough for Morannus to lean forward. The Gunderman nodded to the captive. “Master Nermesa.”
Wulfrim appeared next to his comrade. He, too, spoke the Aquilonian’s name. All the while, the rest of the party kept absolutely silent.
Orena kept the bottle close. The Black Dragon waited for the scent to cause him to black out or perhaps imagine things, but nothing happened. Nermesa felt no more response than if he had accidentally smelled the perfume of some woman passing nearby. The scent came . . . then vanished, just like that.
His thoughts must have shown in his eyes, for Orena gave a throaty laugh, and said, “You will see . . .”
She handed the empty bottle back to Morannus, who returned it to the pouch. The lead Gunderman snapped his fingers, and two of his underlings went to work on the bonds holding the captive.
Nermesa did not know why their mysterious potion had failed on him, but he was more than ready to take advantage of the situation. He saw onl
y one chance, that of taking a prisoner. Not Orena, though, not after what the knight had seen in Morannus’s eyes. At some point, the baroness would prove expendable. She believed her bodyguard worked to make her the queen her husband’s death had prevented, but evidently Morannus had some secret master who would instead take the throne.
No, if Nermesa hoped to escape, he had to take the lead Gunderman himself.
One man undid the wrists while the other the ankles. Morannus stood not that far away from Nermesa, the Aquilonian’s traitorous friend seeming to take special interest in the proceedings.
Nermesa finally saw his chance. As the one Gunderman finished releasing the captive’s other wrist, the Black Dragon twisted around and seized the dagger in his belt. He then shoved the guard away and threw himself at Morannus.
Morannus reacted far more slowly than Nermesa could have even hoped for. The lead Gunderman stood all but motionless as the knight seized him by the collar and brought the dagger to his throat.
“No one moves, or he dies!”
Morannus was oddly calm. “You wish to leave here, my lord?”
“Play no games! You know I do! But if I must die here, it’ll be with you, old friend!”
The Gunderman cocked his head. “We’ve every intention of you departing tomorrow, my lord. Even sending you off to join his majesty, the king, on the field of combat.”
“Spare me your jests,” growled Nermesa, not liking Morannus’s continually complacent attitude.
“Very well.” The Gunderman cleared his throat. “Put down the dagger, my lord.”
And to Nermesa’s horror, the hand wielding the blade—his hand—obediently lowered. Worse, no sooner had it done that, than the fingers opened, letting the knight’s last hope drop to the ground.
“The scent of the Gray Lotus works as promised, mistress,” Morannus declared.
“Wonderful . . .” murmured Orena, her eyes glittering evilly in the lamplight. “Glorious . . .”
Wulfrim was not as satisfied as either of them. “But for how long? It will need to be for quite some time.”
“More than long enough, brother. More than long enough for him to do the deed, then die because of it.”
The Silent Enemy Page 22
