Although not completely satisfying him, the berries served to return to the Aquilonian some of his strength and presence of mind. He studied his surroundings again, seeking a better understanding of his location. He assumed that he was still in Nemedia, but exactly where was an excellent question.
He started up a hill in hopes of getting a more useful perspective. The woods—and the mist—looked thinner up there, giving Nermesa hope that he might spot a village or at least smoke from one.
But his first glance around once he had reached the top was anything but promising. More tree-lined hills greeted Nermesa, several of them taller than the one upon which he stood. Worse, mountains stretched north of some of those.
To the southeast, though, a faint wisp that might have been smoke or merely an interesting cloud formation enticed him. With no other notion as to where to head, Nermesa started that way. Even if this was Nemedia, where an Aquilonian officer—especially one of the fabled Black Dragons—was likely to be attacked en masse by the locals—Nermesa understood that he had no hope of returning home unless he found proper food and a mount.
Even if he had to steal both.
The path was highly uneven, but Nermesa at first managed a good pace. He kept the sword handy, although not once since starting out had he seen anything remotely resembling a threat. Still, in a strange, likely hostile land, it paid not to become complacent.
Atop the hill, Nermesa had been better able to estimate the time of day. As he had surmised, it was very late morning. He had originally had hopes of reaching the vicinity of the unknown settlement before nightfall, but as the day waned, he saw that his progress would not be sufficient. Even though twice along the way the Aquilonian had fed himself on more berries and some bird eggs from a nest, and had even found water again, the pace with which he had begun slowed as the hours passed. Despite his best efforts, Nermesa finally had to stop to rest for a time.
He was now certain that some settlement lay ahead, possibly even one of impressive size. The one tendril of smoke—it was definitely smoke—had split off into nearly half a dozen, possibly more. Nermesa believed that the nearer he got, the more those tendrils would further divide.
But before that could be verified, the last vestiges of day gave way. Despite that, Nermesa pushed on, determined to cut the distance as much as possible before the last of his energy gave out.
He managed perhaps two, even three hours more, then finally realized he could go no farther. Propping himself against a tree, Nermesa debated continuing after a small respite, but finally decided against it. Seeing no better place to settle down, the exhausted captain again slid down into a sitting position right where he was.
As on the previous night, he had barely done so when slumber claimed him. This time, fortunately, there came no nightmares of monstrous, undead warriors mixed with fiendish beasts. Nermesa’s sleep was a vague collection of images from his life, none of which he retained for more than a moment. His taut nerves finally began to relax—
“I commanded you to stand, Aquilonian!” bellowed an accented voice in his ear.
Nermesa started, his sword hand instinctively coming up.
With a sharp clatter, another blade expertly forced his down. A large figure silhouetted by the sun stood over him like a fearsome deity. As Nermesa’s sleepy eyes focused, he made out armor and the cloak of an officer.
A Corinthian officer.
“Come on, you!” demanded the helmed figure, a bearded veteran twice Nermesa’s age and with a face as ugly as the gorilla-god of the Picts, Gullah. “Rise up, spy!”
“I’m no spy!” Nermesa managed to blurt.
“If not one, then what does a Black Dragon, one of the Aquilonian king’s most trusted, do so near Tebes, eh?”
“Tebes?” Bolontes’ son eyed the man in confusion. He was still adjusting to the notion that he had crossed into Corinthia somehow, much less that he was farther south—near Tebes, not Sarta, as would have seemed more likely.
“Still playin’ games, eh?” The officer pointed his blade at Nermesa’s throat. “Hand over your weapon, and we’ll head back to the city! You can prove your innocence there!”
Nermesa loathed giving up King Conan’s gift, but the Cimmerian-born ruler would have been the first to point out that life had far more value than refusing to surrender even the finest sword. Nermesa hoped that, assuming he proved he was no spy, somehow he would regain the weapon that had already saved his skin more than once.
He dropped the sword at the feet of the officer. The man snapped his fingers. Glancing past him, Nermesa saw half a dozen soldiers on horseback. One leapt down and retrieved the blade, immediately returning to his mount thereafter.
“Where’s your own steed, Aquilonian?”
“Lost.” Nermesa chose to say no more. It was possible that the Corinthians would know where the fearsome cats made their home. Should they go there and find the skeletons, they would surely think him partially responsible for the slayings.
The officer took his response at face value. He eyed his captive. “Doubt you’d make it if you walked, and I’d wager the magistrate would want you alive for questioning. Koras! Double up with Athenus! I want this one on a horse next to me . . .” The Teban commander grinned, revealing several gaps in his teeth. “. . . with his hands bound tightly behind him, naturally!”
The expert soldiers quickly took care of the situation. Nermesa offered no resistance and even helped wherever possible. He hoped that his good behavior would work to his advantage. With Sarta advancing its own cause with the takeover of the pass, the leaders of Tebes were actively seeking Aquilonia’s favor.
The patrol took a winding path toward home, but it was still a much quicker journey than Nermesa could have hoped for on foot. In fact, he realized that he would have likely taken more than one wrong turn, forcing himself over more inhospitable terrain than needed to be crossed.
A thought occurred to Nermesa.
“I wish to speak with the ambassador from Aquilonia,” he said to the patrol leader, whose name was Agamendion. “The moment we arrive.”
“You’ll need a seer, then,” retorted the brutish captain. “Your precious ambassador’s been dead a week.”
“What?” The blood faded from Nermesa’s face.
“Accident, they say. There’s a messenger on his way to your capital with the news.”
Agamendion shut his mouth and looked ahead again, a clear signal that, for him at least, the conversation was at an end. Nermesa sat in the saddle, staring inward. He had not counted on the ambassador’s dying. One look at Nermesa and the uniform he wore, and the man would have vouched for him. Now, it was simply Nermesa’s word . . . which, as one who had seen foreigners in trouble in his own country, he knew would not be much help at all.
But all thought of his predicament momentarily faded into the background as the party left the wooded hills and entered a vast, flat agricultural region . . . and Nermesa beheld in the distance the tall walls of Tebes.
Even more so than a place like Tarantia, a self-governing city-state such as Tebes or Sarta made ample use of the fertile soil around it. Thus it was that the region circling the city had little in the way of simple estates, where the wealthy went to enjoy the peace one could not find within Tebes itself. Instead, every estate that Nermesa saw seemed to be in a competition to grow the most of some crop or raise the largest of some animal—or both. Countless workers toiled in the fields, and Nermesa was reminded that the distinction in classes was even more absolute among the Corinthians. The serfs worked like slaves and, in some cases, likely lived little better. The garments of most of those the Aquilonian surveyed were simple cloth tunics with flat, open sandals. Few looked up as the party passed, a sign of just how much work their masters demanded of them.
Another party of riders came up from the direction of the city. Their captain, a man almost as fierce-looking as Agamendion, saluted Nermesa’s captor, then led his own troops on. The Aquilonian soon noticed other a
rmed contingents riding here and there. In addition, each estate he passed had its own organized force . . . and Nermesa knew that they were not there to mind the serfs.
The city-states of Corinthia were constantly at odds with one another, various confederations rising up and changing with the wind . . . at least, that was the view in Tarantia. The situation with Sarta was only the latest shift in political control, but its implications reached well beyond Corinthia’s borders.
The walls of Tebes had a solid look to them, as if carved from one gargantuan stone. The vision was a false one. The skillful craftsmanship of the builders had covered the true stone with a clay mixture that, when hardened, was almost impossible to crack. Other realms had tried over the years to discover Tebes’ secret formula, but to no avail. Nermesa even recalled General Pallantides once speaking of it, the commander of the Black Dragons wishing that the walls surrounding the palace could be likewise reinforced.
The gateway the party approached was sharply arched and with two high, wooden doors that swung open to the sides. As Captain Agamendion led the riders through, Nermesa saw that, when shut, the doors were secured by two huge beams—one at about waist level, the other just above a man’s head—sliding across from opposite directions. A platform on each side of the gateway enabled men easily to maneuver the upper bar.
Although Nermesa had never been to Corinthia, he had learned something of its architecture from his tutors. The ancestors of the Tebans and their Corinthian counterparts shared a similar background with Aquilonia’s, but there were differences. The Tebans, it seemed, like to build upward in a manner different than Bolontes’ son had seen back in Tarantia. They made use of every hill or rise, seeming to accentuate those areas to the extreme. Streets rose and wound around buildings in manners that, to the practical Aquilonian, seemed haphazard and unduly complicated. There were none of the sleek towers such as at home, the taller buildings here seeming a series of boxes stacked one on top of another for anywhere up to a dozen stories. The only towers akin to Tarantian design were the ones near the walls that were used to watch for invaders. They were gaunt, unprepossessing shadows of the proud giants Nermesa had grown up around.
Most of the basic structures—inns, smithies, and such—were more near what the captive knight was used to, but even with them there were alterations. Roofs were of a green copper and arched almost violently. The columns at the front entrances were slimmer and characterized by a top decorated with a design fashioned after the thorny leaves of the acanthus plant, native to both lands.
Statues dominated various front steps of public buildings much the way they did in Tarantia, although none of the faces were, of course, familiar to Nermesa. Most were clad in the fashion of the Corinthians—dramatic cloaks pinned at one or both shoulders draping over the gownlike tunics still popular among most of the citizens.
Several people paused to eye the captive, no doubt trying to place his own distinctive armor. Some might be able to identify him as Aquilonian, but few would realize that he was a member—however sorry—of the Black Dragons. A ragged figure sweeping refuse into the sewer—Corinthians were famed for the complexity of their water systems, which rivaled even that of Tarantia—gaped at Nermesa as if the knight sported fangs and horns.
As they headed deeper into Tebes, Nermesa dared ask, “When will I be able to see the magistrate?”
Agamendion chuckled. “Sooner than we both thought!” He pointed ahead at a dour marble structure with a foreboding, sooty look to the stone from which it had been built. Men clad in gray armor and visored helms and holding spears at attention stared malevolently at the approaching riders, but they were not at whom the Teban captain now pointed. That honor went to a slim, bald man whom Nermesa might have taken for a clerk in the king’s counting-house. Yet, as the watery-eyed figure in the dark blue tunic slowly descended the wide, well-worn steps, each of the grim guards straightened with clear respect and not a little fear.
“Here comes Lord Carolinus now,” declared Agamendion. “You may regret your desire to see him, Aquilonian! He looks not to be in a good mood.”
Indeed, as Carolinus noticed them, his expression turned sour. He especially seemed to mark Nermesa as the focus of his dislike.
“What is this, man? Who’ve you brought me? An Aquilonian by his looks . . . and that armor is for no common soldier . . .”
Nermesa decided to take the matter in hand. “My lord Carolinus—”
He got no farther, for at that point Captain Agamendion angrily slapped him across the mouth, drawing blood. “You’ll be silent until spoken to directly, understand? And it’s ‘Magistrate Carolinus’ to those in your position!”
Nermesa angrily struggled with his bonds. Two of Agamendion’s men drew their weapons, and one of the guards on the steps started down, his intention clearly to run the arrogant prisoner through.
But a single wave of Carolinus’ hand made the Teban soldiers freeze. “Away with the weapons. The man is an officer of Aquilonia. Whatever his faults with protocol, I’d like to hear what he intended to say . . . and judge from there.”
Something in the magistrate’s eyes warned Nermesa that he had better explain well.
But before he could begin, someone else caught Lord Carolinus’ attention. “Wait,” he ordered the Aquilonian. “I was on my way to meet someone. Here he comes now. I will speak to him, then deal with your situation.”
The magistrate walked on past Nermesa. Bolontes’ son started to look over his shoulder to where Lord Carolinus headed, but Captain Agamendion gave him a warning glare.
With nothing else to do, Nermesa ran over his story. He had to be cautious about his mission, but certainly could explain that his party had ridden with the caravan as part of a special escort because of the rash of attacks. Whether or not to mention Ambassador Zoran, the Nemedians, and the mysterious Corinthian was still a matter of debate, though. He did not want to be the unintentional instigator of a new series of arguments between the kingdoms, especially since tempers were already near the boiling point.
What could he tell the magistrate, then? Nermesa would have to pick each word and thought carefully. Carolinus did not strike him as a man who missed much.
From behind him, the magistrate called, “Captain Agamendion! Come here!”
Turning control of Nermesa over to another soldier, the officer dismounted and hurried over to his superior. Nermesa leaned back, trying to hear what they discussed. Unfortunately, he could understand nothing, not even what the tone of their voices meant.
Without warning, the Corinthian captain returned to him. To the Black Dragon’s surprise, Agamendion began cutting his bonds.
“You’re free,” grumbled the patrol leader. “And I’m to apologize for any trouble you’ve had.” The bearded officer spat on the street. “Consider yourself apologized to.”
Nermesa was just pleased to be free. Rubbing his wrists, he nodded to the captain. “My sword?”
With a scowl, Agamendion sent a man to retrieve the elegant blade. Clearly, the Corinthian had intended to claim it for his own.
As Nermesa sheathed his weapon, Lord Carolinus returned. The senior magistrate’s attitude, while still officious, was more respectful than previously. He indicated Captain Agamendion and the other soldiers who had captured the Aquilonian.
“The state of Tebes extends its apologies for any undue stress placed upon an emissary of his majesty, King Conan. While the guards can be forgiven for not expecting to find a member of the august Black Dragons wandering our realm on foot, they should have escorted you with dignity to us as they would any visitor of significance.”
While not exactly certain that he had as grand a status as the balding magistrate indicated, Nermesa thanked Lord Carolinus.
“New matters have been brought to my attention; otherwise, I would speak more with you, Captain Nermesa”—Carolinus ignored the Aquilonian’s startled expression upon hearing his name—“thus, I will leave you in the company of a fellow countryman
, whom both you and I have the pleasure of knowing well. He’ll treat you accordingly, I’m certain.”
And with that, he stretched his hand out to the side and brought into Nermesa’s view a fellow countryman that the Black Dragon did indeed know well . . . and hardly would have expected to come across now.
“Quite a journey you’ve had, Nermesa Klandes,” remarked the Baron Antonus Sibelio with a smile. “You really must tell me about it over some wine . . .”
6
“AN INTERESTING TALE,” the baron said, after hearing Nermesa’s somewhat-abbreviated story. He poured some more of the sweet red wine he favored into the captain’s silver chalice. “One for the bards, if I do say so myself.”
Nermesa left the new wine untouched, his thoughts deeply involved in the events he had just related. “Nothing epic about it, my lord. Mostly a story of failure and ineptitude.”
“Hardly that . . . unless you’ve left out something significant?”
The pair of them sat in a city villa owned by the other noble. Antonus had offhandedly mentioned to Nermesa that, in addition to Tebes, he had villas in Sarta and two other major cities of Corinthia.
“A stupid necessity,” Antonus had told him. “But when dealing with Corinthians, it’s not good to put all your eggs in the proverbial basket. I generally make certain to have a presence in whichever state suddenly finds a way to claw to the top of this land, such as Sarta is doing now.”
“How do the Tebans feel about that?”
“They need my goods and influence.” The baron had grinned, then. “How do you think they feel?”
Nermesa still did not know how the Tebans felt, but at the moment he certainly envied Antonus’ life . . . save where the man’s marriage was concerned. As he sat there, purposely ignoring Baron Sibelio’s suggestion that there was more to the story than Bolontes’ son had indicated—and which was so very true—Nermesa wondered how he could bring up mention of Orena’s obsessive vengeance to his savior.
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