The Silent Enemy

Table of Contents

 

 

There was a flash of claws,
giant
claws, then Nermesa was sent hurtling across the tower chamber. He saw a flash of a wing larger than himself, and then the haunting, mocking visage of Eduarco’s bride, Jenoa.

“So kind of you to finally accept my invitation,” the Brythunian temptress cooed. “You are just in time to help feed my darling pet.”

The thing that had battered Nermesa gave a shriek that shook his bones. It was a bird, a raptor, such as the falcons used by the nobles of Aquilonia to hunt small game. Only this bird—its wings expansive enough to fill the chamber, a beak large enough to crush Nermesa’s head—could not subsist on such small fare.

In fact, under the behemoth’s tree-sized perch lay a carcass torn asunder—a goat’s carcass. As Nermesa tore his eyes from the grotesque display, they fell upon other examples of the giant raptor’s dining.

Only these were not the bones of goats.

No, by their skulls, they were clearly those of men ...

 
 
Millions of readers have enjoyed Robert E. Howard’s stories about Conan. Twelve thousand years ago, after the sinking of Atlantis, there was an age undreamed of when shining kingdoms lay spread across the world. This was an age of magic, wars, and adventure, but above all this was an age of heroes! The Age of Conan series features the tales of other legendary heroes in Hyboria
.

The Marauders Saga
GHOST OF THE WALL
WINDS OF THE WILD SEA
DAWN OF THE ICE BEAR

The Adventures of Anok,
Heretic of Stygia
SCION OF THE SERPENT
HERETIC OF SET
VENOM OF LUXUR

The Legends of Kern
BLOOD OF WOLVES
CIMMERIAN RAGE
SONGS OF VICTORY

A Soldier’s Quest
THE GOD IN THE MOON
THE EYE OF CHARON
THE SILENT ENEMY

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 
THE SILENT ENEMY

 
An Ace Book / published by arrangement with Conan Properties International, LLC.

 
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Ace mass-market edition / December 2006

 
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1

ALTHOUGH FAR SOUTHWEST of Aquilonia’s capital, Tarantia, and, in fact, poised on the very border of the realm and that of neighboring Zingara, the province of Poitain was an ardent supporter of its king, Conan. The heavily armored knights of Poitain were renowned for their fighting prowess and had often come to their liege’s aid even when most others had turned their backs against him.

The chief reason for their almost zealous support for the Cimmerian-born ruler of Aquilonia lay with two men: Count Trocero—lord of the land—and his senior knight, Sir Prospero. Both the count and Sir Prospero were deeply devoted comrades of the king, and the latter, especially, spent much time in the company of Conan. Prospero was, in fact, in Tarantia almost as much as he was in his own province.

But not this day. Accompanied by four trusted men, the senior knight rode through the countryside of Poitain near the blue-tinted mountains of the northeast. Ostensibly, he and his companions were on their way to visit his cousin at the tower at Serenti Pass, one of the many towers and castles along the mountains built during the days when Poitain had been independent and Aquilonia only a small plot of land surrounding old Tamar—the original name for Tarantia and one still used often in Prospero’s homeland.

Sir Prospero himself was the epitome of Poitainian chivalry and knighthood. A tall, lithe man in full, gold-chased armor, the dark-eyed noble was skilled in many weapons, but especially the great, two-handed swords for which his kind were known. Prospero’s own, jewel-encrusted blade hung in a massive scabbard attached to his back. Unlike his companions, he did not wear his visored helm, but had it loosely hooked to his saddle. This allowed his long, golden blond hair to flow freely. Like most Poitainians, Prospero’s skin was bronzed from the sun. He had a handsome, almost roguish—albeit clean-shaven—face and, as was often the case, wore a grin. That same grin could generally be seen in battle, just as the knight was about to down a foe.

Most of this part of Poitain consisted of lush plains dotted by forest. Prospero much preferred the palm trees and olive groves of the southern half of the province, for there the women were as warm and welcoming as the climate. However, duty to the count and the king brought him up here this day. Secret reports had come of a possible Zingaran scout infiltrating the mountainous region. Count Trocero did not take much stock in the reports, but it was better to be safe than sorry, as the saying went. Since he did not want to alarm his subjects unduly, he had asked the knight to take a look. As this was near where Prospero’s cousin was stationed, it made for the perfect excuse.

Prospero’s growing opinion of the matter was that the rumor was just that . . . a rumor. Cautious questioning of the local nobility had unearthed nothing more than a Zingaran coin and blade recently discovered. One look at the coin in question—the monarch whose face lay emblazoned on one side dead a century past—and the rusted condition of the sword was enough to convince Prospero that the ones who had reported the “scout” were seeing ghosts of their own imagination. Both items were clearly relics of one of the southern kingdom’s long-ago failed attempts to make Poitain’s fertile lands its own.

Still, Prospero would have been remiss had he not fulfilled his duties to the letter. By the time the knight returned to Count Trocero, the rumor would be absolutely laid to rest.

The four guards with him were handpicked men all, trusted with his life just as they trusted him with theirs. Like him, they were Poitainians by birth and upbringing. Aquilonia kept its own contingent of soldiers in the province, but while Prospero respected them, they were certainly not
Poitainians
. Even the king would have readily agreed with him on that.

The sun was already low in the sky, and some dark clouds threatened to obscure what remained of the light. The landscape had grown rockier, with hills rising up ahead of the party. The tower maintained by Prospero’s cousin was another two days away, but there was a garrison outpost barely some three hours ahead where the senior knight and his companions would stop.

“I see dust up ahead,” one of the other knights abruptly remarked.

Prospero could think of no one who would be out in this area, but as it was northeastern Poitain, he did not grow overly concerned. It would hardly be a regiment of mounted Zingarans . . .

And, in fact, when he saw that it was only two riders approaching, even his slight concerns melted away. They were certainly no threat.

The pair were clad in dust-laden travel cloaks. The hoods covered their heads well, entirely obscuring their identities. As the pair reined their horses to a halt, the apparent leader raised a hand in greeting, and rumbled, “You would be Sir Prospero?”

“That I am,” remarked the knight with a nod. Ever polite, he saluted the other man. Prospero leaned forward, seeking a glimpse of the fellow. It was one thing to remain hooded while riding, another when conversing with someone. “And who would you be, with your covered countenance, who seeks me?”

This brought a chuckle from the shadowed face. The rider’s hand suddenly dropped to the sword at his side. “Ha! I’d be none other than your
doom
, fool!”

And as he drew his weapon, he whistled.

The hills around the knights blossomed with armed figures, at least two dozen by Prospero’s trained eye. They were clad like their cohorts, with some mounted and others on foot. They swarmed the small party from all sides, their murderous intent very clear.

All this, Sir Prospero saw in but a single moment. Then, his veteran hand moved like the wind, seizing and drawing his own well-honed blade. Gripping it in both hands, he then let out a battle cry and met the two men before him.

The sword of the leader met his . . . and shattered under the force of Prospero’s mighty blow. The hooded rider barely escaped having his shoulder and neck separated.

His companion was not so fortunate. Perhaps eager to claim the kill that his leader had lost, he thrust at Prospero while the knight was in the downswing. For many less-skilled fighters, the attack would have been impossible to defend against. Not so Count Trocero’s most trusted man; Prospero adjusted the course of his two-handed sword, using its momentum to assist him in raising it up again.

The large blade caught the attacker’s underneath, ripping the latter free. As his adversary’s sword went flying, Prospero once more used momentum—this time in a downward swing—to cut open the miscreant’s chest and send the hapless fool’s innards spilling over the startled horse.

He was somewhat surprised at the man’s inept fighting, but did not question the good fortune. For the moment unhindered by any foe, Prospero checked on the others. The harsh clang of metal against metal was proof enough that Prospero’s comrades had reacted nearly as swiftly as he had, but by no means did the knight feel any overconfidence. He and his order were exceptionally skilled—Prospero felt no vanity in thinking so—but they faced great numbers even for Poitainians.