The Silent Enemy

by Richard A. Knaak

  “Tomorrow we will go ride to where the Cimmerian leads his army. He will be most pleased, I suspect, to have his pet Aquilonian returned to him. You will ask to ride with him in the battle that will finally come. I will tell you everything to say. Then, as the two sides join, you will take the sword he gave you and thrust its point into his back. If you understand this, say so, but nothing more.”

  “I understand.”

  The Gunderman nodded satisfaction. Leaning close, he whispered, “And, so that your humiliation will not be so long and lingering, know, Master Nermesa, that if you survive the assassination, I will make certain to slay you in turn. And if not I, then Wulfrim.”

  The knight raged inside. He was not doing his former friend any favor. What Morannus truly had in mind, despite what he said, was to ensure that Nermesa never had the opportunity to tell anyone the truth.

  The Gunderman inspected the Black Dragon. “Your armor needs polishing and your clothes some mending. We should get started on that now. After all, you are part of the Cimmerian’s elite and should look it . . . especially when you strike the mortal blow.”

  ALTHOUGH MORANNUS EVENTUALLY ordered Nermesa to rest, he could not make the Aquilonian actually sleep. Nermesa’s eyes were closed—and unable to open at the Black Dragon’s desire—but he lay there awake, fearful of what was to come and desperate to think of some manner by which to prevent it.

  Yet, eventually, footsteps neared the cot one of the guards had set up in the empty servants’ quarters, and Wulfrim’s voice muttered, “Wake up! It’s time to get up!”

  The knight’s body reacted as if pulled by strings. It took only a few minutes more to prepare himself.

  When he was finished, Wulfrim inspected him carefully. “The epitome of Aquilonia . . . what better tool for its downfall?”

  After making certain that Nermesa had his sword, the Gunderman led him upstairs. Only then did the knight see that it was still dark out.

  Despite the early hour, House Lenaro was full of activity. Everywhere, Gundermen prepared as if they themselves were about to ride off to war. Nermesa counted at least twenty and suspected half again as many more elsewhere. It seemed that Morannus had dismissed—or, worse, disposed of—every servant who was not one of his cohorts.

  As Wulfrim and the knight neared, another Gunderman who had clearly just ridden in from elsewhere strode toward Morannus. Orena’s bodyguard took the newcomer aside.

  Wulfrim put a hand on Nermesa’s chest. “Wait.”

  Morannus and the new Gunderman spoke for several seconds, then the latter handed Orena’s bodyguard a small missive. The lead Gunderman read it over quickly. His expression tightened as he finished.

  Crumpling the note and thrusting the remains into a pouch at his belt, Morannus dismissed the courier. He saw Wulfrim and Nermesa and signaled the pair over to where no one else could hear them.

  “What is it?” Wulfrim asked.

  “Arumus is under siege by the Aquilonian garrison and some of his brother’s men.”

  A sharp intake of breath escaped the second Gunderman. “How so?”

  “The note gives no reason, but we must assume that they are lost. Still, Arumus will not divulge anything.”

  “But the plan—”

  Morannus cut him off. “Is so close to fruition that it will continue! The loss of a few was to be expected.” He considered. “I think that it is time that we all departed Tarantia.”

  “I’ll go tell the others.”

  “Do so. I’ve a few more details for Master Nermesa.” As Wulfrim departed to obey, Morannus met the Black Dragon’s gaze. “This changes nothing. In fact, it only emphasizes that the Cimmerian must die—”

  He broke off as a new figure entered the scene. Orena, dressed in an elegant, emerald gown, descended the staircase. Behind her came two females of Morannus’s race, who evidently acted as the baroness’s personal attendants now.

  “Such commotion!” she breathed. “Is your departure imminent?”

  “Stay here,” Morannus commanded Nermesa. He marched up to his mistress, going down on one knee before her. “Yes, it is. We must make haste in order to ensure success.”

  “Splendid!” Telaria’s sister peered at the frozen knight. “I would like one last moment with him—”

  Morannus rose again, blocking her path. “I’m afraid that isn’t possible, mistress. You see, I need to take him to his horse immediately.”

  She frowned. Then her gaze shifted to the work of the other Gundermen. Most had begun gathering up their packs and were even now making their way out.

  “Morannus, where are they going? I thought some were to stay behind.”

  “As I said, we’re leaving.” Looking at her two attendants, he cocked his head. The women nodded back, then left their positions to join their countrymen.

  “Stop!” Orena snapped. “Where are you going? Morannus, why are they—”

  She gaped. The Gunderman had at some point drawn the dagger from his belt. It now stood poised just above the baroness’s waist.

  “Forgive me, mistress, but nothing can be left to chance.”

  And as Nermesa watched helplessly, Morannus drove the blade into the still-uncomprehending woman’s stomach.

  Orena let out a long gasp. Blood flowed out over her once-immaculate gown. She stared at the deep wound.

  The Gunderman twisted the dagger, opening the gap wider.

  His mistress clawed at his shoulders, but her twitching fingers could not hold on. Her wide eyes turned to the knight.

  The baroness’s expression changed. Hatred filled her gaze, but hatred not meant for her former betrothed.

  “Nermesa!” she managed. “K-kill h—”

  But, alas, for both her sake and for the knight’s, Orena got no farther. She let out a last gasp and fell back.

  Morannus did nothing to slow her fall, content with watching as the woman he had served for so many years sprawled dead at the foot of the steps.

  Barely had he done the deed than Wulfrim returned. The other Gunderman gazed dispassionately at the corpse, saying only, “Will she not be discovered?”

  “The baroness is not among the most favored of the nobility, anymore,” Morannus replied, wiping off the dagger on the hem of his victim’s gown. “There is only her sister, and she’s used to the sudden and long silences of her elder sibling. No, no one will notice for some days . . . more than enough time for us to succeed in our mission.”

  Replacing the blade in his belt, the lead Gunderman turned to his puppet. “Come with us, Master Nermesa.”

  They departed the house for the front grounds, where most of the rest of the party already waited, mounted up. One of the other Gundermen handed Wulfrim the reins of the three animals that he, Morannus, and Nermesa would use.

  Morannus mounted, then commanded the Black Dragon to do the same.

  Two Gundermen still on foot waited by the gates. As the others rode toward the entrance, the pair swung the gates open.

  Nermesa did not see those gates shut again, but he heard them. They clanged together with a finality that had to do with much more than merely the death of Telaria’s sister, a death that shocked Nermesa much even though Orena had almost slain him the previous day. No, the sound of those gates signaled to the Black Dragon his last hopes fading away. He had no doubt that Morannus would have a plan by which to avoid the guards watching those leaving Tarantia . . . and, once beyond the city, nothing stood between the villains and Nermesa save the open roads and land leading to where King Conan fought to preserve his realm.

  A fight which the Cimmerian-born ruler of Aquilonia would barely even have a chance to wage before his lifeless body fell, as Orena’s had, at the hand of one of those whom he had most trusted.

  19

  AS NERMESA HAD feared, it proved simple enough for Morannus’s band to depart Tarantia unhindered. After all, as at so many other positions, the gates through which they rode were guarded chiefly by Gundermen. Nermesa doubted that all of them w
ere members of the brotherhood, but the officer in charge most certainly was. He waved the band through with scarcely a glance despite the fact that protocol demanded otherwise.

  Nermesa wanted to warn the guards—warn everyone he passed—about the danger, but at Morannus’s command all he could do was sit sternly in the saddle, as if nothing mattered more to him than reaching his destination. The knight constantly prayed to Mitra that some accident would befall him before he confronted the king.

  Yet the roads were clear. Most of the traffic east and northeast of Tarantia had long dwindled away to nothing. Moreover, the weather also worked against Nermesa, with not even a drop of rain coming down.

  On the third day, they rode into a small village along their path. Morannus sent Wulfrim and the two women on some mission into the village while the rest of the party continued on. Nermesa caught only a glimpse of the place—a meager collection of thatched wooden houses and one weathered inn—but during that glimpse he caught sight of another Gunderman coming out to greet the trio.

  Morannus did not bother to explain to his puppet just what task he had sent his second on, but it surely had to do with their sinister plan. Nermesa finally got some hint of just what it had entailed when Wulfrim, now alone, caught up to his countrymen that evening.

  “Well?” asked Morannus expectantly. He and the Black Dragon sat around one of three campfires built by the Gundermen. By order of his master, Nermesa mechanically ate his evening meal.

  Wulfrim sat down. Warming his hands by the fire, he grinned, and replied, “The birds are on their way.”

  “Bori watches over his faithful,” responded the leader. Around him, several of his cohorts nodded at this comment.

  “Tarascus will meet the Cimmerian, then?”

  “He must. He has extended himself too much simply to retreat. It will be in the shadow of the mountains, as planned.”

  They said no more after that, but Nermesa surmised from what he had heard that one of the birds mentioned was likely on its way to a waiting comrade of Morannus’s who had contact with the king of Nemedia. At this point, such a thing did not surprise Nermesa. By now, he was fairly certain that there were Gundermen in every part of the known world. A silent, patient enemy waiting for their day . . . which had finally come.

  And which he still could do nothing to prevent.

  The next day, Morannus pushed his band harder than ever, obviously seeking to reach the Aquilonian host as quickly as possible. Nermesa surmised from the haste that the Nemedians would move swiftly once they received word. The knight briefly hoped that Tarascus would grow too reckless and attack before the Gundermen and their assassin arrived, but realized almost immediately that such would not be the case. If anything, the Gundermen on the Nemedian side would somehow see to it that he implemented everything as planned.

  Then there at last came the moment when Nermesa and Morannus, both in the forefront, rode up to the top of a ridge . . . and spotted the host.

  The bulk of Aquilonia’s strength lay before them. The Gundermen gathered around the Black Dragon and their leader, eyeing the tableau.

  “How much strength has the Cimmerian likely mustered?” Morannus asked Nermesa.

  The answer came immediate and complete, as always, despite the knight’s inner attempt to keep his mouth shut. “Six thousand, six hundred knights. Sixteen thousand mounted men-at-arms. Four thousand eight hundred Bossonian archers. Four thousand men-at-arms on foot. Three thousand Aquilonian archers. The Black Legion, numbering almost three thousand total.” Nermesa’s eyes swept the field as he concluded, “At least five thousand Gunderland pikemen.”

  “A fair number,” the lead Gunderman remarked with some admiration. “The Nemedians would surely lose the day if the Cimmerian remained alive to rally such a host.” Morannus gazed around. “No Poitainians?”

  “No.” Of course there would not be. They were instead embroiled in a struggle of their own, based on what Nermesa had earlier heard.

  “As planned. Good.”

  Morannus did not make mention of the pikemen, which struck the Aquilonian as a particularly curious thing. Could it be that most of the pikemen were innocents, that they were to be sacrificed just like the rest of the soldiers? The message that Morannus had received from Gunderland had indicated that Arumus’s castle was under siege not only by Konstantin’s men, but by those of the villain’s own brother, Dario. The Brotherhood of Bori was not so vast as Morannus pretended; otherwise, they would not have had to act as secretively as they did among their own.

  But that knowledge did Nermesa no good. So long as his sword arm belonged to the traitor, nothing else mattered.

  He had tried time and again to struggle against the power of the Gray Lotus. The wizard Set-Anubis, who had kept him under a spell of paralysis for days, had called Nermesa a man of great will. It had taken the wizard repeated efforts to maintain his power over the Aquilonian, and in the end that power had failed. The Gray Lotus, however, seemed an invincible force. The Black Dragon felt no more able to escape its influence than he had the first day.

  About an hour later, the party came across the first sentries. Morannus had spent each evening telling Nermesa all that he would say, then making the knight repeat everything back. He told Nermesa how to act at any time and promised his puppet that he would interject any response necessary should the Black Dragon somehow falter.

  The senior guard, a mustached veteran, stepped forward to speak to the newcomers. “Halt there! What business do you have here?”

  “I am Baron Nermesa Klandes,” Nermesa responded on cue. “I am a Black Dragon, a servant of the king. We must be allowed entrance. It is important that I see his majesty.”

  He hoped that the guard would for some reason reject his words, but the man eyed the breastplate—which Morannus had made him polish again the night before—and studied the stern expression, and waved the party through.

  As they entered the vast encampment, Morannus’s gaze narrowed. “They are making preparations for moving,” he muttered to Wulfrim and Nermesa. “Good. Nemedia must have begun its final march on schedule.”

  “They will meet tomorrow morn, then?” asked the second Gunderman eagerly.

  “They must. Tarascus will leave them no choice since he has none himself.”

  The band rode in to the greetings of many of those around them, both their own countrymen and the rest. Nermesa seethed inside as Morannus accepted the greetings and returned his own as if he was their true comrade.

  The leader of the brotherhood leaned toward Nermesa. “You are not waving. Wave. It will cheer their souls . . .”

  Nermesa obeyed, feeling all the while as if he were about to stick a dagger into the back of every soldier there.

  “Where is the king’s tent?”

  The knight easily spotted it. “There. To the right.”

  “Then let us make haste. The king must know that your good sword will be there at his side come the battle.”

  Soldiers made a path for them as they wended their way to the great gray tent situated in the heart of the host. Many kings would have set up their tents far to the rear—assuming that they bothered to be anywhere near the struggle at all—but King Conan considered himself as only one more fighter. If his men were willing to die for him, he should be among them. Such notions put heart into his supporters.

  They were nearly there when a towering figure stepped out and caught sight of them. It was not the king, but someone whose appearance raised Nermesa’s hopes for the first time in days.

  General Pallantides.

  The general took one look at Nermesa and his usually solemn expression momentarily cracked. The knight could read the tremendous relief that briefly covered Pallantides’ face before the commander of the Black Dragons caught himself.

  Once more the veteran campaigner, he strode up to Bolontes’ son. “Klandes! We had feared you lost down in Poitain! Mitra watches over you.”

  “I am glad to be here,” Nermesa replied wo
odenly. “I wish to see the king.”

  “And certainly you shall.” General Pallantides looked over the Black Dragon’s companions. “All arms are welcome.”

  Morannus bowed his head. “We would follow my Lord Nermesa anywhere, general, and hope that you will let us do so in battle.” He leaned forward. “Is it as I see? Will it be tomorrow?”

  “Aye, that fool Tarascus has finally stopped dancing! Now he comes to meet the executioner!” Although he answered Morannus, Pallantides looked now at Nermesa. “Should have beheaded that bastard the last time. The king wants us on the move even before first light. If you wish to see him, it would probably be best to do so now.”

  Nermesa nodded. “Thank you.”

  “Shall we dismount, then?” suggested the lead Gunderman.

  As Nermesa obeyed Morannus, the knight once more screamed within. So far, General Pallantides had noticed nothing amiss. Perhaps if the commander had not been distracted by the coming assault, he might have realized that Nermesa did not act quite right. As it was, once again the Black Dragon’s hopes were crushed. There remained but one more chance . . . that King Conan himself, wiser in the matters of evil, would recognize the truth.

  Four of Nermesa’s unit stood guard at the entrance. They gave their comrade no more than a glance even though, like the general, they had probably thought him dead. However, now they were on duty, protecting his majesty, and nothing, absolutely nothing, was of more significance to them.

  Which made it all the more maddening to Nermesa that they allowed him, who was to be the brotherhood’s vile tool, into the presence of their lord.

  General Pallantides preceded them. As he stepped inside, the commander called, “Your majesty! I bring good tidings in the form of a visitor.”

  The massive figure leaning over the wide oak table covered with maps turned. He was already clad for battle and in his black plate mail—over which had been set the silken surcoat upon whose breast was the golden lion—was an imposing image. Atop the table sat his plumed, visored helm, the crest of which was fashioned like a wyvern.