The Silent Enemy (36 page)

Wulfrim leaned near Paulo as if to whisper in his ear . . . and suddenly the Black Dragon shivered. To Nermesa’s horror, Paulo slumped against the Gunderman, who let him slip to the ground unnoticed.

Only then did Nermesa see that the traitor carried not just his sword, but a dagger, which he had just used to stab Paulo between the armor plates.

Enraged both at the death of his friend and fearful that King Conan’s demise would soon follow, Nermesa threw himself against the last figures blocking his way.

Wulfrim stepped up behind Aquilonia’s fabled ruler. The Gunderman thrust the bloody dagger in his belt, likely aware that it would take nothing less than a sword to slay the powerful Cimmerian. He raised the long blade—

Nermesa was still not close enough to engage the assassin, so he did the one thing he could think of. At the top of his voice, the knight shouted, “Wulfrim!”

This time, he was heard. The Gunderman instinctively turned at the sound of his name. It was all Nermesa needed to cut the final distance between them.

Letting out a hiss of disbelief, Wulfrim thrust at the Black Dragon. Weary from two long chases, Nermesa reacted slower than usual. Wulfrim’s blade caught his near the hilt.

With a twist, the Gunderman tore the sword from Nermesa’s hand. It fell at the assassin’s feet.

“Aquilonian,” the fighter growled. His eyes darted around, but, in the heat of battle, no one had yet noticed this odd turn. “It would have been better for us had you died in the wastes of Cimmeria. I’ll fix that, then deal with your beloved master!”

“Morannus is dead, as are most of the others, Wulfrim! Your insane plot is at an end!”

The Gunderman shook his head. “Not while one of us lives! Gunderland will be free of Aquilonian taint . . . and I will be free of your meddling!”

He raised his sword for the killing blow . . . then hesitated. His eyes widened.

Not asking why Mitra had granted him a reprieve, Nermesa threw himself forward. He seized his sword and, in one smooth motion turned it up.

He thrust the sword into Wulfrim’s stomach, shoving the blade all the way up to the hilt.

Wulfrim let out a gurgle. Blood rose in his mouth. He dropped his sword, then stood there for a moment, quivering.

At last, the assassin fell backward, sliding off Nermesa’s sword. There was a moist, slick sound as the blade came free.

And as Wulfrim’s body struck the earth, Nermesa looked up to see King Conan, the monarch’s broadsword dripping anew with blood, staring down at him. The king stood behind the Gunderman’s crumpled form, and it finally dawned on the Black Dragon why the assassin had not only hesitated but looked almost shocked. It had not been Nermesa’s blade alone that had slain Wulfrim. King Conan had dealt the Gunderman a terrible blow from behind.

“Nermesa Klandes,” grunted the Cimmerian, blue eyes glittering. “When this battle is over, you’ve much to tell me, I think.”

“Yes . . . yes, your majesty . . .”

King Conan nodded. The familiar grin spread across his features. “But first, I need to teach that dog Tarascus his place again.”

And with that, the lord of Aquilonia turned away and plunged back into the battle.

Nermesa pushed himself up to his knees. As he did, hands seized him, helping the Black Dragon to his feet.

“Easy, Nermesa!” called Prospero from behind him. “It’s a wonder that you can stand at all!”

“He . . . he’s dead, Prospero. Wulfrim’s dead.”

“Yes, I saw it all, from too damn far a distance, I might add. My horse stumbled, throwing me. I was stunned for a minute, and by that time you were far ahead.” The Poitainian came to the side. He slipped Nermesa’s arm over his shoulder. “Hold on to me. You’ve been through a lot.”

“Yes.” Nermesa glanced down at the Gunderman, still not quite certain that Wulfrim might not surprise them by leaping to his feet despite the terrible wounds to both his back and his stomach. However, the corpse remained a corpse.

Then, it occurred to him what had happened. “He saved
my
life, Prospero. The king saved mine! I’ve sworn to die for him, to protect him, and he turned his back to the battle to come to my aid.”

“I saw that. Conan does not much like stabbing a man from behind, but if he had hesitated, you would be dead, yes.” The Poitainian noble chuckled. “You and the king make quite a fearsome combination, I must say. Mitra help the villains who come against you two.”

“He saved my life,” Nermesa repeated, now eyeing the Cimmerian’s dwindling back. The king was in the heaviest part of the fighting, but the Nemedians seemed more concerned with escaping his sword rather than actually facing him. It was clear that the battle would soon be over, especially once Tarascus and Morannus’s agents on the opposing side realized that the assassination had failed.

Helping Nermesa toward the rear, Prospero chuckled again at the Aquilonian’s comments. “Well, after all,” he murmured, a smile across his regal features, “he
is
Conan.”

22

TARASCUS, HIS ARMY already suffering heavy losses, capitulated barely an hour after the failure of the Brotherhood of Bori to assassinate King Conan. Conan allowed the Nemedian monarch to return home, but only after forcing further concessions from his rival. Pallantides, who oversaw the exchange, later told Nermesa that there was a very good chance that Tarascus would not hold the throne much longer. This second, disastrous failure would erode what little support he had. True, Conan could have used the moment to remove the other king permanently, but preferred not to at this juncture. The Gundermen with Tarascus were taken prisoner, the Nemedian ruler never understanding that they would have eventually assassinated him as well.

The news of Nemedia’s debacle must have flown magically to the southwest, for, barely days later, Poitain’s foes melted back into their homelands without so much as a word. As Count Trocero later put it, “We camped across from the enemy that night and, in the morning, found that we were camped by ourselves.”

As for the Westermarck, when word filtered back that the Lion Spirit still lived, the Picts suddenly grew very submissive. They retreated to their villages in short order and gifts of food and furs were left at the edge of Scanaga to placate the “magical” warrior, an act that embarrassed Nermesa when he heard of it.

The revelation of the brotherhood’s existence shook many Aquilonians to their very core. Most great Houses and most businesses had at least one Gunderman in their employ. Even the king found it hard to believe, for Gundermen had made up much of his support in the past.

“There are Gundermen everywhere,” the former adventurer muttered to his trusted followers. “Even in the palace. They’re part of Aquilonia’s army, by Crom! Am I to herd them all into Gunderland and seal the blasted place off?” King Conan shook his head. “I’ll not blame them all for what a few have done. If I were to do that, I’d have to exile everyone
else
in Aquilonia . . .”

Still, Nermesa did provide one method by which to track down others of Morannus’s ilk. The tattoo that he and his brethren wore on their necks became their downfall. Captain Dante and several of his men were arrested thus, their complicity in the Poitainian messenger’s death verified. Halrik, second-in-command at the outpost in Poitain, thrust a dagger through his heart rather than be captured. A sweep was made through Gunderland itself, with many a native turning in the villains before the Aquilonians—led by Konstantin—could even start. The Iron Tower was filled as it had not been in years.

Not by the least stretch of the imagination did anyone—the king, General Pallantides, Chancellor Publius, and even Nermesa—believe that all the members had been rooted out. However, now the throne was warned. No one would ever again take the presence of Gundermen for granted.

While all this went on, King Conan made certain that some semblance of normality remained. This enabled Nermesa to help Telaria with something that he had been dreading for some time.

Orena’s cold body had been discovered by her sister more than a week after the murder. The sight had been, needless to say, enough to send the younger sister into shock. Telaria had always sought to make peace with her elder sibling, her only close relative. Despite Orena’s horrific duplicity, the auburn-haired lady-in-waiting insisted that the baroness be given a proper burial, then placed in the family crypt. Nermesa admired his betrothed for doing so, doubting that he could have been so generous to one who had been so cruel to him.

The gathering was a small one, for other than Telaria, Nermesa and his parents, and a few loyal friends of both the former, there was only a representative of Queen Zenobia in attendance. However, the queen honored her servant, not the baroness.

When the ceremony was done, and Telaria and Nermesa were alone, she told him, “I am having the garden stripped down, made completely open, and removing that thing in the center. Then I’m going to seal up the Lenaro house and leave only caretakers to watch over it.”

“Why not tear it down?”

She shook her head, tears still streaming down her pale cheeks. “This is the home of my parents and grandparents. The home of my family. I can’t live here, but I still honor them. Orena will not make me dishonor their memories.”

“I understand. I’ll help you in any way possible, Telaria.”

“Thank you . . .”

And after the Lenaro house was dealt with, it finally looked as if the time had come when Nermesa and his beloved could at last put their own affairs in order. They talked of the plans for the wedding, a task that the knight found almost as daunting as facing the Picts or pursuing Wulfrim into Cimmeria. He was grateful when his mother took a hand in the situation again, the two women seeming to have a much better grasp of what the event should entail.

But just as things seemed to move on a smooth course, Nermesa was urgently summoned by General Pallantides. With a sinking feeling, the Black Dragon went to meet with his commander.

The veteran officer looked up from his work as Nermesa entered. Pallantides wore a stern expression. “About time, young Klandes.”

“Forgive me, General. I was seeing to the house . . .”

“The one formerly owned by Baron Sibelio?”

“Yes. Telaria will not live in her own, so I needed to see if the preparations I requested before my journey to Poitain had been completed.”

The graying soldier waved off any further explanation. “It’s good that you mentioned your last mission. That brings me to the reason I summoned you.”

A pit opened in Nermesa’s stomach. “You’ve another mission for me, sir?”

“One that only you are capable of finishing successfully. It is of the utmost secrecy.” The general rose. He was in full battle regalia, not a good sign to the knight. “Come! I expect the king already wonders where we are.”

“The king?” Nermesa anxiously followed. “Does this concern the brotherhood?”

“To a degree, yes. The brotherhood, the machinations of Baron Sibelio, and that Pictish witch, too.”

Bolontes’ son almost stopped dead in his tracks as he drank in the implications of what his commander had said. “They’re tied together?”

General Pallantides gave him a disapproving look. “The king will explain
all
, Klandes.”

He led Nermesa through the palace to the throne room, where half a dozen dour Black Dragons stood guard at the great doors. They came to attention as Pallantides neared them.

“Are the king and the council gathered within?” the commander asked.

“Aye, general,” responded one. “They merely await you and Baron Klandes.”

As the guard said this, something stirred within Nermesa. A suspicion. “General Pallantides—”

The commander ignored him. “Announce us.”

The guard who had spoken turned and banged three times on the closest door. Nermesa heard a rumbling within. His heart sank, and he started to take a step back.

“To my side, Klandes.”

Nermesa had no choice but to obey.

The doors swung open . . . and as he had feared, it was not a tense meeting of the king’s advisors concerning some threat to the kingdom, but rather a ceremony in which
he
was the center of attention.

“General, I don’t—”

“Yes, you do. Every bit of it. Stand straight, Nermesa, and march toward the king. I’ll follow behind.”

As he followed the order, Nermesa noted that both his parents and Telaria were in the audience, at honored places near the front. The rest of the gathering included the most trusted of the nobles, merchants, and the military. Chancellor Publius, looking something like a plum in his purple finery, smiled at Nermesa as if they were the best of friends.

What seemed the entire Black Dragon contingent appeared gathered in the throne room. The elite warriors lined the walls. Each man held his sword high as Nermesa walked by, comrades honoring the hero among them.

As he neared Telaria, Nermesa saw that her face was flush with excitement. His mother, Callista, fought down tears of joy, and even stolid Bolontes appeared to have something in his eye.

One person he did not see but whom he expected would like to be here was Sir Prospero. However, Nermesa knew that the Poitainian was still active in helping Count Trocero make certain that the province was again under their complete control.

The banners of the golden lion hung high overhead, the largest of the silk tapestries above the thrones of the king and queen. King Conan was clad not in some robe of state, as Nermesa would have expected, but in the same armor that he had worn on the battlefield. His helmet rested in the crook of his arm, and on his lap rested his broadsword. His expression was unreadable, but the knight thought that he briefly caught a glint of pride, which only served to make the Aquilonian even more uncomfortable.

In contrast to King Conan, Queen Zenobia wore a luxurious, golden gown, which gave her a radiant look. She gazed at Nermesa with open gratitude. The knight felt his face flush.