Behind him, he heard the crash of timber as the remaining floors collapsed upon one another.
He and the men who had followed him in paused to breathe in fresh air. As Nermesa sought to empty his lungs of smoke and soot, a figure on horseback suddenly loomed over him.
It was General Pallantides. He stared from Nermesa to the fire, then back to the knight again.
Nermesa shook his head. “I—I’m sorry, General! The fire spread—spread too quickly! We couldn’t get—to the study!” He stared morosely at his commander. “I’ve—I’ve failed the king and you!”
The commander stood in the saddle, surveying not only the burning building but the images its fiery light now revealed. Black Dragons continued to round up and march off what remained of Baron Sibelio’s followers. Other knights had begun to reclaim the bodies of their own dead, which were, fortunately, far fewer than that of the enemy.
“Failed us, Nermesa?” Pallantides shook his head vehemently as he once more quickly scanned the vicinity, then turned his gaze back to man below. “Hardly that . . . hardly that ...”
21
OVER THE WEEKS that followed, there were still raids upon the caravans, but most were easily repelled or crushed. Perhaps spurred on by earlier, easy prey, the brigands grew overconfident. Now, without the baron’s guidance or Set-Anubis’ sorcery, they quickly became a moot concern. Most of their members were soon dead or headed to the Iron Tower.
The threat of a war between the Corinthian city-states faded just as abruptly. Without warning, Nemedia withdrew its support for arrogant Sarta, which suddenly became quite willing to negotiate with its numerous neighbors. Nermesa could only assume that, without Nemedia or the Baron Sibelio’s financial aid, Sarta could not long hold the valued pass with its limited resources. Nor could it face so many enemies.
King Conan invited the Corinthians to negotiate in neutral Aquilonia. At the same time, he invited “interested parties”—Nemedia, Ophir, and Koth—to join in the discussions. Not willing to be left out, Brythunia, Argos, and Zingara quickly arranged for their own representatives to be added.
And, thus, the trade agreement, once thought dead, rose to new prominence. What started as merely a Corinthian concern was readily manipulated by Conan into what the Cimmerian-born monarch truly wanted. Nermesa, a party to some of the developments, watched with wonder as a man who was called by so many a “barbarian” outspoke and outmaneuvered highly trained politicians and negotiators.
Of those with whom King Conan dealt, there were many faces new to the court. Nermesa had been there when his lord and General Pallantides had sent the missives to the various other kingdoms commenting on the alliances created by the baron. What started out as an abject apology concerning the Aquilonian noble’s treachery became a subtle note pinpointing those with the most ties to House Sibelio in each of those lands.
Ambassador Zoran was the first and most notable to suffer for his ambitions. The document that arrived with the new representative from Nemedia did not thank Conan for the information he had given to his old enemy, but did state that Zoran had been removed as the result of the misuse of his authority.
From the new ambassador had come the hint that this “removal” had involved Zoran’s beheading.
Lord Dekalatos of Sarta simply disappeared, at least according to public reports. Private ones mentioned a man found floating in the city’s sewers, his body unmarked save for a single dot at the neck like a bee sting. Whether natural, suicide, or something else, no one involved on the Sartan end either said or seemed to care.
As for Mikonius Flavius, once secured by Aquilonian soldiers, he willingly listed all those in league with him. For that he was spared his life and cast into the Iron Tower.
It could not be said with certainty that everyone involved in Antonus’ plot—especially the nameless Aquilonian nobles he had vaguely mentioned—was captured or slain, but Pallantides and, most of all, the king appeared satisfied with the conclusion to the matter.
As for Nermesa, there was but one thing that concerned him.
Telaria Lenaro.
He had seen her but one time since returning to the capital, that the very night of his return. Along with other well-wishers in the palace, she had stood there waiting for him. Upon Nermesa dismounting, the auburn-haired lady-in-waiting had run over to him and held him so tight that he thought that he would not be able to breathe.
“I feared the worst,” she had finally murmured.
“As I did about you. I should have never endangered you so.”
“You never did,” Telaria insisted. “Antonus was responsible for that . . . and do you think that I would’ve just stood by?” Her eyes had then welled up even more. “Nermesa . . . I love you.”
The words had not taken him aback in the least. They were only, after all, an affirmation of what had been building up over the past year. Trying to keep his voice from cracking, he had replied, “And I you . . .”
There had been more that he had intended to say to her, and, from her expression, more from her as well, but Pallantides and the Black Dragons had at that point torn him away from her. In addition to a hastily arranged meeting with the king to tell his entire story, Nermesa had been dragged around by his commander to numerous interviews with Conan’s other trusted advisors. A day had become a week, then the week two.
But finally . . . finally . . . Nermesa was able to arrange a rendezvous with Telaria through none other than the queen.
“Certainly, I understand,” Zenobia replied after he had finally come to her. Through luxurious lashes, the queen studied the knight. “And I know that she is eager to see you, too.” The queen leaned back in her chair, her gown clinging to her lush curves. Had not his own desires been turned elsewhere, Nermesa would have very much envied the king. “You are captain of the guards for this evening’s ceremony honoring General Pallantides for his years of service to my husband, are you not?”
“I am.” Nermesa had considered it a special honor—and a chance to redeem himself after his previous turn as guard commander—to be placed in charge of those watching over the special ceremony. Pallantides had chosen him personally, saying he could think of no better man. Nermesa only hoped that he could live up to the other’s expectations.
“I will see to it that she is there, also. There should be a moment when you can step away from your duties to be with her.”
Nermesa bowed deep. “I am very grateful, your majesty. Very grateful.”
Zenobia nodded. “As am I to you, Captain. As we all are to you.”
ALTHOUGH THE CEREMONY was to be small and private—by royal standards, anyway—those in attendance would be the most influential and trusted of King Conan’s subjects. Some of the names on the list given to him by Publius were ones that made Nermesa shake his head with awe. Yet certainly the general was worthy of their greatest respect, for had he not saved Aquilonia more than once during his career?
An honor guard was to escort Pallantides in, and although Nermesa was to be in charge of security, his commander insisted that he also lead that contingent. It was another honor that the knight felt he did not deserve but could not refuse. At the general’s suggestion, Sir Paulo was made officer of those already on duty in the throne room, where the ceremony was to take place.
And so, as the bells marked the coming of evening, Nermesa and a dozen crack Black Dragons stood at attention near Pallantides’ quarters. Each man had polished his armor to the point of gleaming, and all wore cloaks with the king’s colors. When the general stepped out to join them, he looked every inch the epic hero in his own shining outfit and plumed helmet.
“Stand beside me, Captain Nermesa,” Pallantides commanded. “I insist.”
Swallowing, Nermesa obeyed. He gave the signal to march, and the escort headed toward the ceremony. Along the way, guards on duty and members of the palace saluted or bowed as the men passed. Several of the onlookers seemed confused, for they not only honored Pallantides, but Nermesa as well.
Finally, the escort and its charge stood before the tall doors of the throne room. Heralds raised long horns and signaled their arrival. The doors swung open from within, and the party marched inside.
The soldiers marched between the waiting well-wishers. Among them, Nermesa saw his parents. Klandes was a House with much prestige, so he had expected them to be here. They nodded toward Nermesa and looked every bit the proud parents, forgetting that it was General Pallantides who was to be honored here, not their son.
But as the escort neared the thrones, as the swarthy Cimmerian and his queen leaned forward in expectation . . . General Pallantides suddenly fell a step behind Nermesa.
“Sir—” the knight muttered.
Pallantides only smiled, then indicated that Nermesa should look ahead.
Only then did Bolontes’ son discover that it was he who was to be honored.
Grinning wide at Nermesa, King Conan gave his queen an arm. Rising, the two stood at the edge of the dais, looking down.
“Well fought, Captain Nermesa,” Conan declared. “Well fought . . .”
And with that, trumpets blared again, and the crowd broke into applause.
When the clapping began to diminish, the king called out, “Here is a true and loyal warrior, by Crom, a man whose blade I would welcome any day beside my own! As he fought against the Picts in the west, he now fought against traitors in our midst, curs who would have placed another on the throne . . .”
“Go to the dais and kneel,” murmured Pallantides.
Following the general’s advice, Nermesa knelt directly before his monarch. As the knight did, King Conan drew his own sword.
“Nermesa of Klandes,” continued the king, “when once before you were honored, I asked what you wanted and then granted that wish! This time, it’s been suggested by others”—he glanced at both Zenobia and Pallantides—“exactly what you deserve.” The Cimmerian-born monarch touched each shoulder of Nermesa with the tip of his blade. “From this day forward, half the holdings of House Sibelio—including the clan holdings in Tarantia itself—now fall to you!”
“Your maj—” Nermesa began, speechless. There had to be some mistake.
“And with it, by Crom!” Conan all but roared, drowning out the knight’s protest. “Added to your other titles, that of baron!” The muscular giant raised his sword high as he looked to the crowd. “Hail, Baron Nermesa Klandes!”
Throughout the assembly, the call was repeated: Baron Nermesa Klandes! Baron Nermesa Klandes!
The king waited patiently, then, when the cries had died down, added, “And I personally add another title . . . Caru Morgar uth Njarl! In the tongue of my youth . . . The Sword of the Lion!” Conan’s expression grew stern. “And let any man who thinks to do him harm know that to do so will bring down my wrath upon them . . .” The former mercenary grinned darkly. “. . . and no sane person wants that . . .”
The trumpets sounded. The audience applauded and cheered again. Conan bid Nermesa to rise. He took the Aquilonian’s hand and shook it with astonishing strength.
“I mean that,” the king muttered. “We are sword brothers, just as I am with Pallantides . . .”
“I . . . am . . . honored ...”
“No . . . I am.”
King Conan released him then. The Black Dragons swarmed their comrade, congratulating him. General Pallantides shook his hand. “All well deserved, young Klandes.”
“Thank you . . .” Nermesa shook his head, still unable to believe what had happened. “It’s all too much . . .”
“No . . . not enough. You’ve earned the rewards over, and you’ll continue earning them. Don’t think you can rest easy now. Your world will only continue to get more complicated . . . and, regrettably, more dangerous.”
One thing concerned Nermesa. “General, my duties . . . I can’t forgo them—”
“I’ve spoken with your father. He will guide your holdings, if you like. I also have others who can be of service. While he fully believes you deserve this and more for undoing this plot, the king doesn’t wish to lose your good arm . . . nor the keen head that you’ve managed to keep.”
“I followed your advice.”
Pallantides chuckled. “Would that more had. Would that more had.” The general suddenly stiffened. His gaze went over Nermesa’s shoulder. “Your majesty . . .”
It was not Conan, but rather Queen Zenobia who stood there. She smiled at both men, then, to the general, said, “If you can relieve this fine man from duty, I have one more task for him.”
“Of course, your majesty.”
Zenobia guided Bolontes’ son through the throng. For the queen, the way parted as if by magic.
“I trust you are pleased,” she murmured.
“Why did no one tell me? Why pretend it was for General Pallantides?”
With a throaty laugh, Zenobia explained, “Because I thought it would be more fun, and the king thought it a fine jest for a worthy man. Now, no more about that. The king’s granted you what he feels right and it is my turn to gift you with something. I did make a promise, after all!”
“A promise, your majesty?”
“And here she is now.” With a sweeping gesture, the queen indicated a figure ahead.
Telaria.
As Nermesa fought for what to say, Queen Zenobia reached forward and brought her lady-in-waiting toward them. When Telaria and the knight stood face-to-face, Zenobia discreetly withdrew.
“Nermesa . . .” Telaria’s face was flushed. She was clad in a gown almost as sumptuous as that of the queen. To Bolontes’ son, she had never looked more beautiful. “Nermesa . . . thank you for Orena.”
Under Aquilonian law, all of a traitor’s holdings were seized by the throne. However, Nermesa had spoken up for Telaria’s sister, insisting that she had been Antonus’ innocent dupe. He had pleaded for her to be allowed to keep the baron’s holdings. King Conan had finally agreed to leave all those that had once been part of House Lenaro to Orena, plus a small portion of Sibelio’s, including the ruined estate. It had been a generous compromise, although, at the time, Nermesa had not known that he would be the recipient of the rest.
“I did what I thought correct,” he finally responded.
“She’ll come to understand that.” Despite what he had tried to do for her, Orena had refused to speak with him personally. A sympathetic Morannus had indicated that she felt shamed and blamed not only her late husband but Nermesa as well. He had, after all, exposed Antonus’ traitorous activities. That Nermesa would now inherit some of the baron’s wealth and property would not sit well with her, either.
Nermesa could only hope that Telaria would eventually convince her sister to make peace with him, but he did not hold out much hope.
“I tried to come to you, Telaria. But when matters didn’t keep me away, you were unavailable.”
This brought a slight smile from her. Glancing in the direction of the queen, the lady-in-waiting replied, “My mistress’s doing. I discovered the honor that they planned for you, and she swore me to secrecy. The only way that I could make certain I wouldn’t say anything was to stay away.” The smile faded, and her eyes grew moist. “You have no idea how terrible that was!”
“I have some.” And with that, he kissed her.
She met his lips with equal vigor. For a time, the noise and the crowd faded away. There were only the two of them.
When they finally separated, it was to find both of them at a loss for what to say next. It was Telaria who finally, weakly, said, “So . . . you’re a baron now . . .”
Nermesa smiled. With those simple words, she had helped him figure out just how to reply.
“Yes . . . and I’ll need a baroness . . . if you’ll have me.”
Her reply was another kiss whose meaning could not be mistaken.
Nermesa savored the bliss of the moment, aware even then that the future would be, as Pallantides had put it, very, very complicated. Antonus would surely not be the last to plot against the th
rone, and as one of those entrusted with the king’s life, Nermesa would represent an obstacle that they would seek to remove. Still, he understood more about the workings of court intrigue now and had learned that the smiling face and outstretched hand could hide the most dire of villains. When next danger reared its ugly head, Nermesa was determined to be ready for it, whether it came from without or within.
He held Telaria tighter, and she responded in turn. For this one night, though, he could dare let down his guard. He could dare let others keep watch while he savored life.
He could simply be a man . . . and not what King Conan had called him in his Cimmerian tongue.
Caru Morgar uth Njarl . . . the Sword of the Lion.
The Eye of Charon Page 28