The Silent Enemy (15 page)

And, to Nermesa, it had given Aquilonia possibly its greatest ruler.

He managed to secure some eggs from a nest, a task which had required some clever climbing up a tree, and quickly cooked them. Minutes later, Nermesa was on the trail again, pushing relentlessly forward. While it frustrated him that he could never seem to catch his elusive foe, he remained heartened by the fact that neither could Wulfrim seem to escape him. Surely, eventually they would meet again.

The first sign of habitation materialized midday in the shape of a hilltop castle. Such fortifications were supposed to be spread all over Gunderland, especially near the Cimmerian border. Rivalry between the two lands went back centuries, having last culminated in the Battle of Venarium. There, the armies of the Gundermen had sought to take what was considered the most valuable of Cimmerian lands. And there, the Gundermen had been routed by their foes, to the point that never again did the hardy, ponytailed warriors venture north.

And now, in the greatest of ironies, the Gundermen willingly served a Cimmerian.

As with Gasparan and other places, Nermesa was tempted to veer off in search of possible aid. But even more so in this realm, he feared to lose even a second. They were now in Wulfrim’s home territory and the fleeing bodyguard would have more opportunities than ever to shake off the Aquilonian.

The day ended again with more hills, another chill night, and sparse pickings for food. The knight liked to think that Wulfrim was in similar straits, but suspected not. The Gunderman was more acclimatized to this land and likely knew best how to forage here.

Then, early into the next day, what Nermesa had feared all along the trek finally came to pass.

Wulfrim’s trail vanished.

It did so in a fading fashion. At first, Nermesa was forced to dismount, the better to follow what little was visible, but then even that proved insufficient. The Black Dragon finally tethered his mount and went in search of some clue as to the direction the Gunderman had continued. However, after a daunting study that cost him half the day, Nermesa had to admit defeat. He had lost his quarry.

He had
failed
his mission.

No!
Nermesa shook off such a thought.
I have
not
failed! I will not!

If he could not find the man, he would seek other clues. Gunderland was not so huge a place. Somewhere, the knight would locate a settlement, and there he could ask questions. It was little enough, but it was something. Nermesa could not give in to defeat; that might cost not only the lives of his king and Sir Prospero, but those of many, many other innocents.

He made his best guess as to which direction Wulfrim might have gone and continued the hunt. A little later, a hint of smoke arose to the east, and as Nermesa rode toward it, he saw other trails of smoke as well. With renewed eagerness, he urged his horse to greater speed.

Perhaps an hour later, the Aquilonian sighted the settlement. A fair-sized town with what appeared to be a castle in the nearby hills. Straightening, Nermesa rode in as calmly and dignified as he could.

Most of the people were, naturally, locals. Everywhere, men, women, and children with the same tawny hair and gray eyes looked up in mild curiosity at this surely unusual sight. A few with features more mixed—either swarthier of skin or darker of mane—marked both Aquilonia’s long presence and the occasional interbreeding with Bossonians. There was likely some Cimmerian blood included, also, although such a thing would remain unspoken among the populace.

Many of the structures were wooden, with stone bases. The wood was painted a dull red, and the symbols of Bori still marked many. With northern practicality, the Gundermen saw no reason to damage perfectly good buildings simply because they now followed Mitra.

Nermesa noticed that many of the structures were also built high and, in fact, had doors on the upper floors that seemed to open up into the air. At first he wondered about this peculiarity, then recalled that, in winter, Gunderland could become as thick with snow as those lands north. The doors on the upper levels would then be nearly even with the snow cover.

While Nermesa felt slightly cool even in his padded armor, the locals moved about in garments as light as those he would have expected to see during summer in Tarantia. Men often wore simple leather jerkins on top, their chests and arms exposed to the elements. The women wore long, practical skirts, but more out of modesty than because of the temperature. Their blouses were short-sleeved and high-cut over the bodice. Nermesa noted that the women of Gunderland were built a bit stronger than those of Tarantia, a reasonable thing considering the land in which they lived. Still, their curves and their beauty would have turned many a head even in the jaded capital.

Nermesa considered heading to the nearest inn, but then spotted something most welcome. Two Aquilonian soldiers clearly on guard duty marched toward him. At first, they appeared not to notice that the disheveled character before them was not some mere wanderer. Only when Nermesa quickly steered his mount closer did one soldier take a closer look.

“Halt there,” he called. “State your name and business in Heinard!”

It was such a pleasure to speak with someone after so long that Bolontes’ son did not answer immediately. Recovering, Nermesa replied, “I am Nermesa Klandes, officer of the Black Dragons, on a mission for his majesty, King Conan.”

The two looked dubious at this answer, not only because Gunderland had never been considered an area where some threat to the kingdom might arise, but also because Nermesa hardly looked like one of the fabled elite unit.

Wiping off his breastplate so that they could better see proof of his identity, the knight added, “I’ve been on the trail of a villain who may be in this town.” He gestured at the castle. “Take me to your commanding officer so that I can speak with him about it.”

Apparently deciding to take a chance that what Nermesa said was true, the senior guard saluted. “The commander can be found in the fort, which is farther on east. Just past the other end of town.”

This surprised Nermesa, who had expected the garrison to make use of the castle. “Not there?”

“It belongs to Gunderland,” was the response, followed by another shrug.

Deciding not to waste any more time on the matter, Nermesa had the soldiers lead him to the fort. As they journeyed through Heinard, he noticed that he had now become far more interesting to the inhabitants. Nermesa nodded to a few and tried to look as proper as could be possible. He represented the throne here.

True to the guard’s word, the fort lay just a few yards beyond the edge of the town. It was typical of Aquilonian frontier forts, boxy and square, with a walkway atop the wooden wall for the sentries. Each corner had a watch tower manned by archers. The contingent here seemed to consist entirely of those from Nermesa’s region of the kingdom, which somewhat startled him. Here, in the heart of Gunderland, the knight would have expected many of the soldiers to be locals.

The gates swung open as the trio approached. Half a dozen guards armed with spears or swords raced up to meet them, perhaps believing that Nermesa was some sort of prisoner.

He put an immediate stop to any such assumption, declaring his identity and demanding again to speak with the officer in charge.

“That would be me,” responded a voice that Nermesa found vaguely familiar.

He discovered the face even more so, especially the trim, red beard covering most of the it. “
Konstantin?
”

The other knight hesitated, then a broad smile graced his fiery features. “Nermesa! By Mitra! ’Tis you, is it not?”

Dismounting, Bolontes’ son briefly embraced his comrade. Konstantin was a few years older than he, but the other knight seemed almost a child, so great was his pleasure at the reunion. Nermesa, too, was greatly cheered by the discovery, although puzzled as to how his friend had ended up here rather than still being stationed in the Westermarck.

Konstantin was eager to explain. “Two months after you departed for the final time, Tarantia finally sent out someone to replace the Boar . . . General Boronius, that is . . . for which I was very happy! Not for me the command of all the west, no, by Mitra!”

“You would have done an able job,” insisted Nermesa, who meant what he said. Konstantin had been the only one left able to take charge after the commanding general had been foully murdered, and Nermesa’s cousin, Caltero, who had been Boronius’s second, had proven to be a traitor.

“Perhaps, but I am glad not to have found out whether that was the case or not. I was posted to a fort near the Bossonian Marches, then the commander here took ill and died. It was decided that I should be sent to Gunderland . . . as Aquilonian officer in charge of the province.”

Which meant that Konstantin was almost unofficial governor of Gunderland, no small promotion in itself. “Congratulations!”

Konstantin shrugged it off. “ ’ Tis Gunderland! What safer place is there in all the kingdom outside of Tarantia save maybe sunny Poitain?”

The other knight’s remark brought Nermesa back to the situation at hand. Leaning close, he whispered, “I must speak with you in private. Is that possible now?”

“To be sure! I’ve been remiss! Hadrian! See to his horse! Altus! Go see about getting some food for our guest! This is not only a good comrade of mine, but he is a trusted servant of his majesty!”

As the soldiers obeyed, Konstantin guided Nermesa toward his quarters, a wooden longhouse with two shuttered windows in front and a stone chimney on the right end. A pair of wary guards stood sentry outside the oak door. They saluted not only their commander but the newcomer as well.

“Welcome to my humble abode,” Konstantin murmured, once they were inside. In the outer room, there was a simple wooden table and chair set that the red-haired knight obviously used to look over reports and maps. A square oil lamp with a wide handle sat atop it, along with a pile of parchments no doubt concerning all of Gunderland. There were two more chairs similar to the first set some distance from the table, one of which Konstantin indicated his friend should use.

As Nermesa sat, the other knight walked over to a chest behind the table and fished out a stoppered bottle and two well-worn metal mugs. Giving one to Nermesa, Konstantin poured both of them some wine.

“Fear not! ’Tis not that foul stuff from the Westermarck! Happy to say that you can get decent Aquilonian wine up here in Gunderland if you have the right contacts back home.”

Nermesa gratefully swallowed some of the red liquid. It stirred him up slightly. “My thanks, Konstantin. I’ve sorely needed this.”

“From the looks of you, there is a lot more that you need! Drink up! Some food should be brought along shortly! In the meantime, tell me what brings you to me and in this—rustic—condition?”

Mulling over his drink for a moment, Nermesa finally replied, “I come in search of those who would seek the king’s death.”

“By Mitra! Are they associated with this Baron Sibelio of whom I heard?”

“Perhaps. There is a Gunderman in their employ whom I’ve been tracking since Poitain—”

Konstantin put down his own mug. “Pardon me . . . since
Poitain
? Have you really ridden all the way from
there
?”

“I have, with little time to stop for fear of losing the trail . . . which I finally did here in Gunderland.”

“You must tell me more if it’s permissible.”

Nermesa took another sip. “First, you need to know something held secret, something you must swear to reveal to no one.”

“You know that I can be trusted, Nermesa.”

“I do . . . Konstantin. Sir Prospero of Poitain was taken by unknown villains in his very homeland.”

The other knight leaned against the table, so startled that for a moment all he could do was shake his head. Finally, he replied, “Sir Prospero! Every soldier of the kingdom knows and admires him! His battle prowess is legend! Is he slain?”

“It was feared so, at first, but I believe that he’s still alive . . . at least for the moment. There is the suspicion that he was kidnapped in order to discover how best to get to the king in the palace and assassinate him. There are few outside of those in Tarantia who would be able to provide such information, and even considering Prospero’s skills, taking him would be easier than trying to kidnap General Pallantides in the capital.”

“Yes, I can see that. Go on.”

Nermesa told him of his own—supposedly simple—mission to deliver documents to Count Trocero and how that had turned into his volunteering to join a new search for clues. “But I myself was nearly taken, and my escape almost proved short-lived when I chose to seek help in the house of Lord Eduarco and his Brythunian she-devil of a wife. The woman kept a demon of a bird, a giant raptor, that fed on human flesh, nearly including mine.”

“Mitra preserve us—” There was a knock on the door and an unintelligible voice that the garrison commander apparently recognized. “Enter!”

A soldier stepped in with a wooden platter upon which lay a fresh loaf of dark wheat bread and slices of goat meat and cheese. The cheese had a robust scent that preceded it by several yards. The aide placed the platter on the table, then quickly and quietly departed.

“I’ve grown very fond of the local cheese and bread here,” remarked Konstantin the moment that they were alone again. “Rich in flavor both. Please, take all you need.”

Nermesa gladly did. The scent of the cheese did not prepare him for its mild texture and aromatic taste. The bread was very sturdy and a pleasure to bite into after so many days of berries and half-raw rabbit. While Nermesa devoured the first pieces, Konstantin sliced the bread and cheese more.

The pit in Nermesa’s stomach began to fill. Some of his tensions faded. He nodded thanks to his old friend.