The Silent Enemy

by Richard A. Knaak

  The brooding eyes fixed on Nermesa—while not missing Morannus—and King Conan uttered, “Nermesa Klandes! By Crom! This is a good sign, Pallantides!”

  “So I thought, too, your majesty!”

  As earlier instructed by the Gunderman, Nermesa went down on one knee before his liege. “My sword is at your command, my lord. I ask that I be able to ride with you when the host moves.”

  The Cimmerian let out a grunt of approval. “How could I deny such a wish?” His gaze shifted to the knight’s companion. “And who is this?”

  Morannus spoke for himself, as he had dictated to his puppet. “King Conan, I am Morannus, faithful friend of my Lord Nermesa here. He knows me as one who has served his betrothed during her youth.”

  “I know the name,” Pallantides commented. “Telaria did mention it. You acted as buffer for her often when it came to her sister, your mistress.” The general’s brow furrowed. “Baroness Sibelio gave you permission to ride with Nermesa? I find that odd.”

  Bowing his head, Morannus answered, “I have cut all ties with the baroness. She cannot protest my being here.”

  Nermesa wanted to cringe at such foul words but could not. Instead, he continued to stay down on one knee.

  The king took notice of this. “Rise up, Nermesa Klandes! I like no man of honor to stay so before me!”

  “My Lord Nermesa will rise if you indeed mean your promise, King Conan,” explained the Gunderman. “So passionate is he about this. He told me so before we arrived.”

  “If that’s the case, then I swear that you’ll be at my side come the battle, Nermesa! Now rise!”

  Given the promise, the knight could now obey Morannus’s earlier command. Once up, he took a step back, setting himself right beside the Gunderman.

  Conan looked around. “Where’s my squire?”

  A sandy-haired youth leapt into the tent. “Your majesty?”

  “Bring some wine—and food, I daresay. Hurry now!” As the squire raced off, the king gestured for the three men to sit near the table. In deference to his station, his servants had dragged along a high-backed chair for Conan. Nermesa and the others sat down on benches.

  The king shoved aside the maps on the table. “Don’t know why I even bother with these things! I know this area as if I were born here, so many times have I had to fight or ride through it!”

  “After tomorrow, there should never be reason for you to do either, your majesty,” interjected Morannus politely.

  Oblivious to the Gunderman’s true meaning, Pallantides nodded. “Aye, tomorrow, Tarascus will learn the folly of not being grateful for having had his life spared the first time.”

  But King Conan did not share his commander’s confidence. “It may not be as simple as all that! Crom! Tarascus is a fool, but usually not that big a fool! I’m still of a mind that he has some plan we don’t fathom!”

  “Our scouts have made a thorough examination of his forces, your majesty. Tarascus has roughly three-quarters of what we’ve mustered, and many of them conscripts. Those’ll fight with less heart. I’ve also had reports from the north and the south. He has nothing else to throw against you.”

  “Mayhaps, but not all weapons are visible ones.”

  “No poisons will reach you, not surrounded by men so loyal to you.” The veteran officer pointed to the knight. “Men such as Nermesa here.”

  The king again appraised Nermesa with his eyes. “By Ymir’s devilish daughter! It could that you are right, Pallantides!” He looked up as the squire returned with a tray laden with bread and salted meats. In the other hand, the struggling youth carried a jug of wine. “Perhaps I’ve just grown too damned comfortable! If I survive this, my next danger’ll be from getting too fat and lazy!”

  “You, your majesty?” piped up Morannus. “It will never happen.”

  “From your mouth to Crom’s uncaring ear, Gunderman. Well, Nermesa Klandes, why so silent?”

  Nermesa had been silent because nothing said had triggered any of the commands that Morannus had given him. The Gunderman prevented any odd silence by offering to pour the wine for all, at the same time saying, “My Lord Nermesa is still digesting much of what happened to him since he left you last.”

  This made King Conan frown. “An act I much regret! What would I have told his woman, Pallantides?”

  The general purposely took a sip of wine, then changed the subject. “What did happen to you, Nermesa? This would be a good time to hear your report. It might have some relevance to our own situation.”

  That triggered Nermesa again. “Yes, sir.”

  He told them his story . . . as dictated by Morannus, naturally. In it, Nermesa rode all the way to Poitain without incident. The attack at the garrison prior to that was not mentioned, and by now Nermesa knew that Captain Dante had wanted to find out what was in the pack just in case it had to do with the brotherhood’s plot. He also realized that the garrison commander had been responsible for the disappearance of Count Trocero’s messenger.

  Once in Poitain, the story changed again, with no mention of Wulfrim, only that he had chased a servant of Lord Eduarco north. Morannus clearly thought it best to mention the noble, as Count Trocero could have sent a message to the king at some point since.

  King Conan and General Pallantides listened quietly, their bland expressions concealing the fact that both were probably analyzing every detail, however minor.

  Nermesa made no mention of Sir Prospero, in part because Morannus himself had never learned the truth about the Poitainian hero. The Black Dragon would have liked to have said something, but he could only repeat matters as ordered.

  The general was the first to respond to his tale, Pallantides tapping a finger on the table as he spoke. “A mad chase. A shame it all came to naught . . . and now that we’ve this trouble with Zingara flaring up, we cannot discuss the matter further with Trocero.” He paused. “Well, Prospero will be mourned.”

  “He will be honored,” agreed Conan, “with the blood of a hundred Nemedians and Zingarans each, the former slain by me personally.” He grunted. “Then we shall deal with the Picts.”

  There was that about King Conan that no one there gave any hint of doubt that he could make good on his promise to avenge his friend. The Cimmerian was fierce in battle.

  Of course, that assumed he would live long enough to see the struggle. Nermesa wanted to reach out and strangle Morannus, who raised a mug, and said, “May tomorrow bring the victory we desire.”

  The others took up their mugs. Nermesa drank all of his, wishing all the while that it was poison.

  Setting down his mug, the Gunderman rose. That was Nermesa’s signal to do the same.

  “With your permission, my lord,” the traitorous fighter said. “My men and I must find a place to set up.”

  “I hope to have them ride with us tomorrow,” Nermesa added. “With your permission. They are very capable.”

  “Granted.” As the two started to leave, King Conan suddenly called out to Nermesa. “The sword. You still have it?”

  “He does, indeed,” the Gunderman quickly replied, smiling. “Only this morning, he spoke to me again of how much he hopes to be worthy of it and you.”

  The king apparently took Nermesa’s silence for modesty. “You already have, Nermesa Klandes! By Crom, I wish I had a thousand like you.”

  Then you would be treacherously slain a thousand times over, thought the knight. He tried to do something—anything—to alert the two men to his plight, but could only bow per Morannus’s commands.

  They stepped out of the tent and rejoined the other Gundermen, who had been patiently waiting all this time. As he mounted, Morannus muttered so that only Wulfrim and Nermesa could hear him, “All went well.”

  Wulfrim nodded. His reaction was enough to alert the rest of the group.

  In a louder voice, Morannus said, “Well, Master Nermesa! Where should we make camp? Someplace near his majesty, as you suggested?”

  “Yes.” Nermesa pointed at a loca
tion. Both Morannus and Wulfrim studied it for a moment, then nodded to one another. The Gundermen moved quickly to secure the spot. They set up everything with practiced efficiency and even gained the assistance of a few soldiers from nearby.

  The day began to fade. Morannus looked around, then whispered to the knight, “Walk with me.”

  He led Nermesa to a copse of trees located just beyond the heart of the camp. Making certain that they could not be seen, the Gunderman commanded his puppet to draw his weapon.

  After Nermesa had done so, Morannus made him perform a few maneuvers with the sword. Satisfied, he ordered Nermesa to stand in place again.

  Rubbing his chin, the traitorous bodyguard walked once around the Black Dragon, inspecting him from all angles. Then, returning to where he had originally been standing, Morannus said, “Give me your blade.”

  He took the proffered weapon, then tested it himself. The Gunderman did an excellent replay of most of Nermesa’s maneuvers, which surprised the latter. Morannus clearly had a natural aptitude for swordplay.

  “A marvelous piece of craftsmanship, Master Nermesa. Do you want to know a secret? As with the sword I showed you in Tarantia, the artisan who made this was a Gunderman. Does that surprise you? Probably not. We are known for our dependability in whatever trade we choose, but especially those involving war.”

  Morannus went through another series of moves. He was definitely as capable as most any Black Dragon.

  “Yes . . . I think this would make a fine weapon for me.”

  He raised the weapon, spun it around his head, then slashed at an invisible foe. All the while, Nermesa could only watch and seethe.

  The Gunderman thrust at the air, once, twice—

  The sword suddenly came around, heading directly for the Aquilonian’s throat. Nermesa tried to dodge it, but his body was not his to control.

  The tip of the blade grazed his throat . . . then Morannus pulled the sword back.

  “I had to be certain,” he murmured. “There was always a doubt . . . a suspicion that you just might be playacting, biding your time.” The former bodyguard grinned. “But you are not, are you, Master Nermesa? You truly have no choice but to do as I say.”

  Morannus returned the sword to the knight’s sheath. He then stepped back and stared Nermesa deep in the eyes.

  “Yes. You are ready. Nothing will stop tomorrow. Nothing.”

  He snapped his fingers and started off.

  Nermesa obediently followed.

  20

  AS WAS OFTEN the case since the Gray Lotus had snared him, Nermesa did not sleep much even though his eyes were closed. Instead, he lay there, still praying to Mitra for some miracle but expecting none. The Aquilonian began to consider his deity as no better than King Conan’s Crom . . . except that Crom might very well have helped him to escape Cimmeria.

  The warmth of the fire nearby did nothing to ease his mind. Through his eyelids, the knight could sense some bit of illumination from the flames. He focused on that hint of light, imagining it to be the sun announcing the coming of the next day. The day when Nermesa would become the doom of his beloved land.

  More than once, Nermesa attempted to convince himself that Morannus’s plan was simply insane. Someone would surely seize the throne the moment the news of the king’s death reached Tarantia.

  But could anyone hold the throne? There was no one that Nermesa could imagine keeping Aquilonia together the way Conan had. The chaos that had ensued when the wizard Xaltotun and Tarascus had sought the downfall of the kingdom was proof enough of that. Their chosen dupe, Valerius, had revealed an utter lack of ability, not ruling at all but simply immersing himself in pleasures while Aquilonia foundered. It had only been Nemedian troops and foul magic that had kept some order, then.

  Now, though, Morannus planned Tarascus’s death, too, assuming all too correctly that Nemedia would fall into turmoil. There, the vacuum of power might prove even greater, for Tarascus had long since removed his greatest rivals. Yet even with doing that, he himself could barely maintain control of his people.

  Yes, if both Conan and Tarascus perished, anarchy would surely ensue in both lands. Perhaps the Brotherhood of Bori would achieve its goal, perhaps not. Whatever the case, many innocents would perish, and the blame would not fall upon the Gundermen but rather the one known assassin, Nermesa.

  The thought was too much for the knight. It stirred his blood. His head pounded. He wanted to rise to his feet and scream.

  Although he did not hear it, Nermesa must have made some sort of sound or motion, for suddenly he heard movement by his side and, a moment later, Wulfrim’s low voice.

  “Playing, are you?” murmured the Gunderman in his ear. “Stop moving.”

  Nermesa, of course, had to obey. There was a short silence, save for a scraping sound. Then . . .

  “I owe you for much, Aquilonian. I owe you for the chase and the humiliation . . . and since I won’t be able to do anything to you after tomorrow . . .”

  A searing heat touched Nermesa’s right wrist. The pain was agonizing. Nermesa wanted to pull away, but the Gray Lotus would not allow him.

  To his tremendous relief, the heat withdrew. The agony was still there, but less so.

  Wulfrim’s foul chuckle filled his ears. “Have a pleasant night, Aquilonian . . .”

  Nermesa’s adrenaline surged. Tears unbidden coursed down his cheeks. His hand twitched. He wanted to somehow cool the burn, but there was nothing he could do. The Black Dragon could only assume that Wulfrim had taken part of a log from the fire and had briefly burned Nermesa with it. If not for the fact that they needed him more or less whole, the knight could only imagine what the Gunderman might have otherwise done to him.

  The spot that Wulfrim had chosen was one that would be covered up in battle and so unseen by General Pallantides or King Conan. It was also not on his sword arm, where it might have affected his aim too much.

  Nermesa doubted that Morannus was aware of what his compatriot had done, the lead Gunderman most focused on the culmination of the brotherhood’s plot. Nermesa wished that Morannus had noticed it, for perhaps he would have punished Wulfrim and given the knight some slight satisfaction.

  But that had not happened and now Nermesa was forced to lie there in pain. That only served to make the night longer and more dreadful, for it underscored his utter helplessness. He finally turned his thoughts to Telaria, hoping that there would be someone who could help her once the news reached the capital about what the Black Dragon had done. Nermesa prayed that she and his parents would come together and would be able to survive the chaos and bloodshed to follow.

  The chaos and bloodshed to which his name would be forever bound.

  PERHAPS MITRA WAS a bit merciful after all, for, despite the pain and all else, at some point Nermesa did fall asleep. His slumber was troubled with nightmares in which he slaughtered everyone he knew at the command of the Gundermen, but still it was in some ways better than being awake.

  A foot prodded him to consciousness, a foot and the hated voice of Wulfrim. “Rise up, Aquilonian. Your day has come.”

  Nermesa dutifully opened his eyes, then stood up. The sun had not yet risen, but around him he could hear and, in some cases, even see activity. King Conan’s host was quickly preparing to move. He had no doubt that the Nemedians were going through the same preparations, too. The battle was imminent.

  As was the assassination.

  Morannus joined them. He eyed Nermesa closely. “Show me the sword.”

  The Black Dragon drew his weapon. Making certain that no one was observing, Morannus ordered Nermesa to go through a couple of swings.

  “Very good,” he said after a few moments. “Put it away. General Pallantides is coming. Answer his questions as I have dictated.”

  Nermesa slid the sword back into its sheath. His right arm still burned, but he continued to try to ignore it.

  Seconds later, the general rode up to the party. He reined his horse to a halt before the knig
ht and the two Gundermen.

  “Nermesa. We move in twenty minutes. Will you be ready?”

  “Yes, General.”

  “Stay near the king at all times. He must be guarded. He is the soul of Aquilonia.”

  “Yes, General.”

  Next to the knight, Morannus bowed. “We shall all make certain that no one will reach the king. They will have to ride through us.”

  Pallantides nodded approval. “Good sentiments . . . Morannus, was it not?”

  “Yes, my lord. I am pleased you recall me.”

  “If you are in company with Nermesa here, you are worth recalling. Mark him, Morannus. I say without qualm before him that Nermesa is destined for great things . . . in addition to those he has already accomplished.” The commander of the Black Dragons ended his statement with a brief chuckle.

  “Such fine words!” commented Morannus quickly. “They are fine words, are they not, Master Nermesa?”

  “Yes,” Bolontes’ son responded. “Fine words. Thank you.”

  The general eyed Nermesa, giving hope to the knight that the veteran officer had at last noticed something amiss. But his hope faded again when Pallantides nodded to him, and said, “I should not speak so just prior to battle. It can only distract you from your duty. Be ready quickly, Nermesa. I expect you at your position the moment that we move.”

  “Yes, General.”

  With a nod, Pallantides rode off to deal with other matters. Morannus watched the general depart, then looked to Nermesa and Wulfrim.

  “Bori watches over us! There is no more need for concern! Make certain that everyone is ready, Wulfrim! We must keep our promise that no one will get through to the Cimmerian . . . so that the Aquilonian here can complete his task without interruption.”

  “Aye, Morannus.”

  They had Nermesa’s mount ready for him soon after. By the time the horns sounded for the advance, the knight and his Gunderman escort had just taken up their positions. King Conan had granted Nermesa a place of honor at his side, just a short distance from the rest of the Black Dragons. Because of their ties to Nermesa, Morannus’s band were just as near. Wulfrim took charge of them while the lead Gunderman rode next to their puppet.