The Silent Enemy (23 page)

To Nermesa’s surprise, a squat stone keep materialized at the far end of the settlement. As he neared it, the Aquilonian could sense that it had been built long before anything else, perhaps even been a part of the defenses set in place when the region had been under the auspices of ancient Nemedia. A different banner hung over the rusting, iron gateway, a banner with a red fox upon it, the first splash of color that the knight had seen since his arrival. That the red was akin to the color of blood did not pass Nermesa unnoticed.

“Dismount,” ordered Valamon. When Nermesa had done so, the bald fighter pointed at the keep. “In there is Haral. He’ll decide whether we let you live or skin you.”

Nermesa nodded. As Valamon had spoken, the gate had started to rise. With many a creak, it finally reached the top of the archway.

Two guards with spears stepped out as Valamon alone led his captive inside. The keep was not a large place, and the interior grounds were in much disrepair. Most of the stone in the floor had cracked, and moss and weeds grew out of many of the gaps. Someone had made an attempt to keep the stables to Nermesa’s right passable. Three mean-looking horses eyed the knight as if daring him to come close enough to be bitten. Nothing in the Border Kingdom seemed to have retained any semblance of hope or pleasantry.

Another surly guard swung open the door to the inner keep. Valamon and Nermesa stepped into a stone corridor with an arched ceiling that reminded the latter more of part of a place of worship.

Crude torches in wall niches gave some dim light to the passage. The two walked by several guards who, to their credit, stood at attention almost as well as those in King Conan’s palace. Nermesa felt certain that these men in particular had once served in similar roles sometime in the past.

And at a pair of tarnished bronze doors ahead, four of the most polished guards yet kept watch. They wore breastplates upon which could still be made out a crest with the silhouette of a fox in the center.

Nermesa’s suspicions as to the kind of man he was about to meet grew.

At Valamon’s signal, one of the guards knocked on the doors. A second later, they opened up.

“Bring him in, Valamon, bring him in,” commanded a voice with more life to it than anything Bolontes’ son had seen so far.

Valamon prodded Nermesa forward. Once the two were inside, the bronze doors immediately shut tight.

The chamber was not much larger than Nermesa’s old bedroom back in his parents’ home. Yet roughly a dozen guards lined the side walls, and two more stood behind the stone dais at the end. A long carpet with a few hints of bright red remaining ran all the way up to the first step. The edges of the carpet were frayed, as were those of the twin banners hanging on the far wall. Again, Nermesa noted the symbol of the fox.

And finally looking at the man upon the weathered wooden chair set atop the dais, the Aquilonian could guess how the symbol had been chosen. Haral was a man with thick, silver hair save for a streak on each side that still retained their original fiery color. His nose was long and pointed, as was his chin, and two gleaming green orbs studied the knight in turn with much intelligence.

Haral was dressed immaculately compared to his followers, his tunic and pants almost reminiscent of some high-caste merchants back in Tarantia. His outfit was forest green for the most part, but with golden stitching on the sleeves. He wore leather boots polished to perfection, and on his right hand a ring with a red opal glittered in the light of the torches.

“Welcome to Haraldon,” the figure on the throne announced almost cheerfully. “Consider yourself my guest—Master—”

Nermesa bowed as he would to any noble. “I am Nermesa Klandes, servant of his majesty, King Conan. I meant no intrusion into your land, but—”

Haral waved him to silence. “You come from the direction of Cimmeria. Why?”

Nermesa thought carefully about what and what not to tell his captor. “I was in Gunderland, gathering information on southern Cimmeria. The king—”

“Knows more about Cimmeria than a hundred scouts could find out in a hundred years. We are aware of Conan even up here, sir.” A dangerous look entered Haral’s gaze. “Now. Would you like to tell us a different . . . and more plausible story?”

The knight considered, finally answering, “I was in Gunderland on a mission for my king, as I said. I sought traitors who passed through Cimmeria. In the process, I became lost in a storm and finally ended up coming out near the Border Kingdom.”

“The Border Kingdom . . .” Haral’s eyes quieted again as he stared off into memory. “A mockery of a name. A collection of little fiefdoms and worse, most ruled by robbers and murderers. The solution of other realms to ease the troublesome raids of Cimmerians. Put the unwanted in their path and force them to defend themselves. Ha!”

There were mutters of agreement from the guards and Valamon. Nermesa noted their hatred for those kingdoms that had left them to fend for themselves.

“His sword, Valamon.”

The fighter brought Haral Nermesa’s blade. As with the others, Haral studied the craftsmanship with admiration. “I am of a mind to keep this piece of art for myself. You probably won’t need it, as even though your story rings true, it still doesn’t forgive your trespassing in my domain.”

“My lord—”

“I was never any ‘lord,’ Aquilonian, although I aspired to be one. I was the son of a merchant of some wealth, albeit a commoner. Profits made our House rise in influence. I even considered the hope of marrying the daughter of a noble, a woman who did not mind my lesser blood.” Haral’s tone grew in bitterness. “But she also caught the eye of a count with the ear of the king, and suddenly my House was accused of betraying the throne. All would have been stripped from my family if I’d not agreed to take the blame and be exiled. The king got most of my family fortune and the count the woman I loved.” He gestured at the keep. “And this was my reward.”

“Shall I take him away?” asked Valamon eagerly, seizing hold of Nermesa’s arm.

“Unless he has some miracle by which to save himself, yes. I would offer you a place in my retinue, Aquilonian, but I doubt I could trust you to shift your loyalty to me. I know of the Black Dragons, whose emblem and look you wear.”

Valamon signaled two of the guards to join him. Nermesa considered fighting his way out even if in the end it only meant his death, but then another notion came to him. Pulling free from the guards, he dared take a step toward their leader.

“Master Haral. Will you permit me one last word?”

“If you must.”

The Black Dragon glanced around the chamber, assessing those there. He was all but certain that they shared the same land of origin.

“Aquilonia is at war,” Nermesa announced to all. “Aquilonia is at war . . . with Nemedia.”

The effect this had on Valamon and the other guards was immediate. They turned to one another, arguing over the truth of this statement.

As for Haral, he eyed Nermesa in silence for more than a minute. When the muttering among his followers had finally died down, he stood. Descending from the dais, the former merchant strode toward Nermesa. In his right hand, he swung the knight’s sword back and forth with skilled ease.

“I’ve ways of finding out if what you say is the truth, Aquilonian. Do you understand that?”

“I stand by my words, Haral. Nemedia is moving on Aquilonia even as we speak.”

Haral scoffed. “But Tarascus would be cutting his own throat, not an unpleasant thought. Why would he dare face Conan again? The Cimmerian has a way about him that makes men willing to die in great numbers for his cause.”

Being one of those, Nermesa replied, “King Conan honors those who fight for him as if they were of his own blood. He asks no more from them than he does from himself, very likely less. As for why Tarascus dares face the Lion again, it is because, as before, he expects the king of Aquilonia to be dead.”

“Assassination?”

“Yes. A part of what I’ve been seeking information about. It led me to a Gunderman—”

Valamon interrupted. “That Gunderman swine we caught some weeks past, Haral . . .”

“Found trying to sneak through our realm just as you were,” the former merchant explained. “Died before we could get anything out of him, though. Yes, there might be a connection . . .”

“That may be. I believe that he and others of his kind are in the pay of some powerful noble in Tarantia who has made a deal with Tarascus in order to take the throne.”

Scowling, Haral remarked, “Which would only serve to make Aquilonia a vassal of Tarascus, as he dreamed of the last time. Tarascus would in essence gain himself an empire.”

Nermesa nodded. It would be a sweet revenge for having been brought to his knees by Conan.

Haral turned from the Aquilonian. He played with the knight’s weapon as he paced about the chamber. The sword moved in arcs impressive even to the Black Dragon.

“It all sounds too convenient for you,” he said to Nermesa. “The perfect story to gain sympathy from those of us here, nearly all exiled by Tarascus or descended from others exiled by his bloodline. As an Aquilonian agent, you’d know how we’d react to anything that further increases the bastard’s reach. He might even someday decide that the Border Kingdom is of no use anymore and hunt us for his sport.”

The tip of Nermesa’s blade suddenly came within an inch of the knight’s jugular vein.

“Yet,” Haral went on, smiling grimly, “even considering all that . . . I find I
believe
you.”

With one expert move, he pulled the blade back and tossed it into the air. Reacting instinctively, Nermesa caught the sword by the hilt as it came down near his left hand.

“I choose to let you live and stay here this night as our honored guest, Aquilonian. Anything, however little, that we can do to frustrate that bastard is worth the while.”

Turning the point of his sword to the floor, Nermesa bowed to Haral. “I thank you.”

But Haral chuckled darkly at his gratitude. “Don’t thank me, Nermesa Klandes. After all, it’s very likely that I’m just sending you to die elsewhere, aren’t I?”

And Nermesa could not argue with him.

14

THE FARE OFFERED by Haral’s followers was modest, and Nermesa was certain that his share meant less for each of the others in the settlement. Feeling guilty, he ate only what he deemed necessary, hoping to make the reduction minimal. The meat was of a flavor and texture unknown to him, but from comments heard the knight suspected most of it to be squirrel. That and rabbit appeared the most accessible meat available to the exiles although there were some hardy goats and even a few cattle, too.

Nermesa sat on one of four benches surrounding a square, wooden table located in a chamber adjoining what Valamon referred to as Haral’s “royal court.” To the bald warrior and the rest in the settlement, the onetime merchant might as well have been a king. From what Nermesa learned, before Haral’s coming, the inhabitants had nearly starved to death. It was he who had organized them and turned their settlement into something vaguely approaching what most of them had lost.

But one thing that no one, not even Haral, had lost had been their bitterness toward Nemedia . . . and King Tarascus.

“Valamon and four others will guide you to the edge of the Border Kingdom. There are some much larger settlements—a city, in one case—that it would be well to avoid.”

“I thank you for that.”

Haral cut into his squirrel almost as if he were imagining it Tarascus. “Thank us by sending that bastard back to Belverus with his tail between his legs . . . if you can’t gut him, that is.”

Nermesa slept in the keep on a weathered cot that he suspected had more residents than just himself. Valamon came for him just before first light, guiding the knight to where his horse had been kept. The animal had been treated very well, and it did not take long to ready him for the journey.

By that time, Haral’s cook had prepared a grainy mixture that looked far more suitable for the horse but that the Aquilonian devoured with gusto. There was no telling when his next good meal might come, and the only thing that he would have to eat in the meantime were the dried rations given to him and his escorts.

The former merchant came out to bid him farewell just as the Black Dragon mounted. “Fare you well, Nermesa Klandes. Safe journey and good hunting.”

“I thank you for your hospitality, Master Haral.”

But the other man shook his head. “It was not hospitality, Aquilonian. It was a thirst for vengeance.” To Valamon, Haral added, “See to it that he makes it to his land. No matter what.”

The bald fighter nodded grimly. “Aye, we will.”

With that, Valamon led Nermesa and the others out of the keep. The inhabitants of Haraldon gathered as the party rode through, perhaps awed by the fact that the stranger not only still lived but was being treated with respect.

Before long, they were out of sight of the settlement. The landscape south differed very little from what Nermesa had already witnessed. It consisted mainly of the same mud brown hills and stunted trees. Here and there were patches of more suitable land, and the knight noted with interest that these were farmed under guard.

“Does this region belong to Haraldon?” he finally asked Valamon.

“These, yes. Enough for us to survive and, in a good year, maybe trade a little with those just east of us.”

“East? Not south?”

“You don’t want to deal with those, friend. Some of us, we were exiled for speakin’ out. Others . . . they’re the scum that even that damned Tarascus didn’t want to deal with.”

Nermesa silently vowed to keep his hand near his sheathed sword at all times.

From what Haral had said, the Aquilonian had assumed that the border with his homeland could be reached by early the next day. That assumption proved far off the mark, but not due to the distance needed to be crossed. Rather, it had to do with those living in the area between Haraldon and Aquilonia, the ones both his host and his escort warned him about.