The Silent Enemy (33 page)

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 knight 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.

“May your swords be sharp and swift,” rumbled the king. With a grin, he added, “And may the blood of many Nemedians keep your blades soaked!”

And so, the Aquilonian host pushed toward its foe. It was a tableau like none that Nermesa had witnessed in his life. He wanted to feel proud but knew that all this might would not save King Conan.

Morannus leaned close. “The battle must be joined first. In the heat of it, the others will be distracted. Remember, I will call your name when the time is ripe.”

Nermesa inwardly cursed the Gunderman a thousand times over, not that doing so made him feel at all better.

The first rays of the sun peeked out over the mountains. The king and General Pallantides had maneuvered their host so that it would face the dawn less directly. It was impossible completely to remove the Nemedians’ natural advantage as they logically had to come from the east. However, by angling the course his forces had to take, Conan had guaranteed that the sun would be more in the corner of his men’s eyes, not directly in front. He had also made certain that everyone wore visored helmets, further reducing the chance of blindness.

Ironically, Morannus’s band had also been given such helmets. They would not need them long, though, the Brotherhood of Bori intending to slip away in the pandemonium that would follow the king’s death. The Gundermen were willing to die for their cause, but only if necessary.

And as the dawn arrived, the first hints of the Nemedian host became apparent on the horizon in the form of dust clouds spread all along the east. Then, faintly seen banners—banners that Nermesa knew bore the dragon symbol of King Tarascus—thrust up into the sky. Minutes later, what seemed one vast, fluid shape poured toward the Aquilonians. It was far wider than Nermesa had thought it would be, and he wondered if Tarascus had managed to muster more men than had been anticipated. It was possible that the Nemedians might yet win, especially if somehow their monarch survived where Conan did not. If so, that would be a fate almost as dreadful as the complete fall of Aquilonia. Tarascus would take great pleasure in wreaking his vengeance on anything related to his Cimmerian rival.

Nermesa suddenly jolted in the saddle as his mount stepped onto a rocky, uneven patch of earth. The movement caused his armor to shift. Part of it scraped the burn.

If anything, the shock of pain that raced through his body felt even worse than what he had felt during the actual burning. The knight let out a gasp, then bit his lip to stem the agonizing tide.

General Pallantides turned back to him. “You said something, Nermesa?”

Bolontes’ son opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. Almost at the same time, Morannus quickly interjected, “Nay, General! I had merely asked him a short question to which he replied. Is that not so, Master Nermesa?”

To the Black Dragon’s fury, he could only reply, “Yes.”

Pallantides returned his gaze to the forefront. Out of the corner of his eye, Nermesa could sense Morannus studying him close. However, the Gunderman evidently noticed nothing amiss, for he also turned his attention to the coming conflict.

But the battle was now the least of matters to Nermesa, for he suddenly realized just what had happened. The power of the Gray Lotus had failed under the pressure of the pain. However brief that they had been, the gasp and lip biting had been the Aquilonian’s own reactions.

But what did that mean? What did he have to do to free himself completely . . . if such a thing was even possible?

A horn sounded . . . a horn from the growing shape before them. The Nemedian force was moving forward at a brisk pace, seemingly very eager to match weapons with Aquilonia’s superior one. King Tarascus was betting everything on his rival’s death. Conan held together the differing elements of his host. The other commanders—old-family nobles all—would, upon his loss, immediately seek to take control themselves. Some might listen to General Pallantides, but enough would not. Then it would not matter how much greater the Aquilonia force was; an emboldened Nemedia would cut it to shreds.

Nermesa focused again on his brief freedom. What could he do to repeat it, to build upon it? He had tried his best to ignore the sharp pain, but—would it have been better to
concentrate
on it?

The Nemedians were near enough for Conan’s forces to see them as individual warriors. They wore plain breastplates and helms with dragon crests. Most were in kilts and sandals. The foremost line had pikes and swords, but behind them would also be lines of archers, as was the case with the Aquilonians. It would first be a matter of seeing whose archers were most effective, and while Aquilonia was blessed with Bossonians, one could not discount the skill of Tarascus’s people.

There would also come rank upon rank of knights, just as with Nermesa’s side. He could even see some of them massing, waiting for the signal to charge. Whatever the outcome, there would be much bloodshed on both sides.

“Sound the horns!” shouted Pallantides. “Archers to the ready!”

Even as the Aquilonian horns blared, so, too, did those of Nemedia.

King Conan drew his great broadsword, raising it high. A minute passed, and still he did not let his arm drop.

But on the enemy’s side, another horn sounded. Immediately after, a horrific hissing sound filled the air as hundreds of arrows arced into the sky in the direction of the Aquilonians.