The Silent Enemy

by Richard A. Knaak

  Yet, none of that compared with preparing for marriage.

  It had been some time since he had asked Telaria Lenaro, a lady-in-waiting to Queen Zenobia, to be his bride. His parents had very much approved of the match, having known her since childhood. However, that she was the sister of the woman to whom Nermesa had originally been betrothed made for a complicated situation . . . for not only had the knight rejected her, but he had helped bring about the death of the man she had later married, the ambitious and treacherous Baron Antonus Sibelio.

  Telaria had been almost a slave to her haughty sister, and it was because of the ill treatment the younger sister had suffered that Nermesa had broken with Orena. Of one of the eldest Houses in all Aquilonia, Orena had taken this as the greatest of affronts to her reputation. She had soon after married the baron, who, unbeknownst to her, had used her as much as she had desired to use him. She it had been who had stirred Antonus into nearly ruining House Klandes’ financial dealings . . . and he it had been who had used his marriage to her to cover his plot to weaken the throne and take down King Conan.

  But the baron had perished horribly at the hands of the sorcerer, Set-Anubis, whom he had enslaved. While Nermesa had not physically slain Antonus, it had been because of him that Set-Anubis had finally been able to strike back at his master. Unfortunately, Orena had not seen it so for quite some time, for months blaming Nermesa for yet another stain to her name.

  Yet, she was the only close kin that Telaria had and, despite everything, Nermesa’s betrothed sought to mend matters with her sister before the marriage took place.

  That process had begun more than a year ago and finally looked to have achieved success. With the aid of her sister’s Gunderman bodyguard, Morannus—a friend also to both Nermesa and Telaria—communication had finally been reestablished after falling apart again following Antonus’s death. It had been difficult going and even the generally staid Morannus had looked relieved when his mistress had given in to her sister’s entreaties.

  “I am most loyal to my lady,” the ponytailed, leather-garbed fighter had told Nermesa during their last encounter. “But her obstinacy can sometimes make me yearn for my homeland.”

  Gunderland was a hilly region to the north that had been one of the earliest additions to the realm, and its warriors were considered among the most trustworthy. True, Baron Sibelio’s treacherous cohorts had included Morannus’s foul-tempered countryman, Betavio; but as a whole the Gundermen were considered so much a part of Aquilonia that they now made up a great part of its armies. Other than Poitain, their region was known as one of the safest in which to journey.

  “I appreciate the effort, believe me,” Nermesa had responded. “Especially since I know I’m a great part of the trouble you had to overcome.”

  This had brought a grin to Morannus’s countenance. The square-jawed bodyguard shrugged his broad shoulders, then shook his head, which sent his dark tail swinging back and forth. “I do what I must, Master Nermesa! I want this rift mended, too, for it only complicates things that do not need to be complicated . . .”

  Telaria’s words and Morannus’s subtle coaxing finally even enabled Orena Lenaro to accept that Nermesa had been granted half of her late husband’s holdings, including his second house, located in Tarantia. That Nermesa had also been made a baron because of the same incident was still a sensitive subject, but at least, for the most part, Telaria had her sister back.

  However, if that one impediment to the marriage seemed to have been overcome, the many originating from Nermesa’s direction had appeared insurmountable. As an officer of the Black Dragons and a favored knight of both General Pallantides—commander of the unit—and the king himself, following his proposal to Telaria, Nermesa had become embroiled in one matter after another for the throne. If the Picts were not testing the western borders, then there were rumors of Nemedian activity in the east. Two nobles had been arrested in the past half year for plotting against the king and been sent to the Iron Tower. Three times, the king had gone on official trips to meet with his counterparts, and Nermesa had accompanied him on each of those journeys. In addition, there were the constant gatherings in Conan’s own court, where countless ambassadors and the like curried favor . . . when they were not trying to go behind the king’s back.

  These were just a few of the duties that had fallen to Nermesa. True, there were others who handled similar tasks, but it had eventually become clear to the son of Bolontes that he was constantly given the most complicated ones.

  It had been General Pallantides who had finally told him why. With his dark—some said Ophirian—complexion, long black hair, vulpine features, and narrow, knowing brown eyes, the general stood out even among King Conan’s inner circle. Pallantides wore proudly his silver armor with the hissing wyrm of ebony embossed upon the breastplate. A rich, purple cape with silver threading draped over his muscular shoulders nearly to the floor. That the commander of the Black Dragons had a slight limp made some perhaps think he had slowed down, but Nermesa had seen Pallantides in action and, even with the injury—the remnants of a deadlier one earned while fighting to save the king and Aquilonia—the general moved more swiftly than expert soldiers fifteen years younger.

  Pallantides had taken him aside little more than a month past—just after Nermesa had returned from the king’s latest trip of state—and had whispered, “His majesty sees great things in you, young Klandes. To be fair, he sees in you an Aquilonian version of himself . . . a man of honor and trust, with a strong, determined sword arm. Whenever he desires someone to act in his name it’s always you who is first mentioned.”

  “I—I don’t know what to say.”

  “Say you will not someday hate him for it,” the general went on solemnly. “For it is your life that he chooses to risk.”

  Nermesa had not even had to hesitate. “I am a Black Dragon. I swore to serve my monarch and the realm. I’ve faith that King Conan sends me on these missions because he feels it absolutely necessary.”

  “Yes, but he also needs to remember that you are human, after all. The queen, in point of fact, has reminded him again that there are others in your life besides him.” General Pallantides had shaken his head. “You deserve time with them, too.”

  Nermesa knew that his superior had mostly been speaking of Telaria. Still, despite Queen Zenobia’s words to her husband, there came yet more missions that only Nermesa could seem to handle.

  Now at last, however, Nermesa had been granted a leave from his duties. In fact, King Conan had all but ordered him to put his personal life back in order once he completed one last simple mission. Conan had papers that needed to reach Count Trocero secretly. Their contents were not revealed even to Nermesa, but their importance was emphasized. They could not be entrusted to a normal courier. The king needed their bearer to be someone he trusted utterly not only to deliver them, but to return with equally important answers from the lord of Poitain.

  King Conan was a mountain of a man, a former mercenary and, if rumors held true, freebooter and thief. Born in the cold climes of Cimmeria to the far north, he was what many of the elder families of Aquilonia termed a “barbarian.” Yet he had proven a more caring, more thoughtful monarch than many of the blue-blooded ones of the past, especially the very despot that he had overthrown, Namedides.

  “I swear by Crom,” the dour giant had rumbled after he had explained the knight’s mission, “that you’ll be granted the time you need once this is done. No more tasks, no more long journeys.” The man who had likely traveled more of the known world than most had shrugged his massive shoulders. He eyed Nermesa from under his square-cut, black mane. “There comes a time when that must end and one should stay put and make a new life for himself. I know.”

  And so, with the promise of finally being able to arrange matters for Telaria and himself, the baron, his heart lighter, had bowed to his liege and hurried off.

  But Nermesa did not immediately rush to his betrothed. Instead, on the swiftest horse, h
e rode to speak with his parents, more specifically his father. Bolontes, evidently just departing for business of his own, met him at the gates. The elder Klandes ushered his son into the family house. With Nermesa constantly gone, it had been Bolontes who had overseen both his own business and that of his now-prominent heir.

  “Yes, the Sibelio house renovation is almost finished,” Nermesa’s father replied to his son’s first question as they stood in the great hallway, “and I’ve inspected it from top to bottom to ensure that there will be no future surprises.”

  When Nermesa had first inherited the stately house of the traitorous noble, his initial inspection had uncovered a secret room containing documents concerning Antonus Sibelio’s plot. Worse, that room had led to another hidden chamber . . . a dark place where the baron had clearly kept prisoners. Evidence indicated that at least one of those prisoners had been a rival merchant who had disappeared nearly two years prior, a man very loyal to King Conan.

  Nermesa had immediately ordered the house stripped from top to bottom and any further evidence brought to his attention. Bolontes had overseen that work with the same utter efficiency with which he had run House Klandes for more than twenty years.

  “I’m grateful,” Nermesa replied, looking up to his father in more ways than one. Bolontes stood a few inches taller than his son’s six-foot-plus height and had a back so straight that he seemed to loom even higher. Until Nermesa’s impetuous decision to enter into service to the king and break his lifelong betrothal to Orena, the younger Klandes had religiously followed the elder’s example in everything.

  They were alike in many ways besides height and attitude. Nermesa was very much his father’s son in looks. Of course, Bolontes’ patrician features were a bit sterner than his son’s, and the brown hair that would have matched Nermesa’s was thinner and gray. Their eyes were both blue, too, although, admittedly, the shape and hue were closer to that of the knight’s mother, Lady Callista. The two men were also left-handed, an uncommon trait in Tarantia, but one that had, during the courses of both men’s lives, proven advantageous in combat more than once.

  “The house is ready to be occupied . . . although you know that ours is always open to the both of you . . .” There was a moistness in Bolontes’ eyes that Nermesa had rarely seen. “Your mother would take much pleasure in that.”

  Nermesa gazed past his father, seeking his other parent somewhere down the vast hallway running through the center of his ancestral home. “Where is she, anyway?”

  “Preparing, of course.” Bolontes allowed himself a brief smile. “So you know, Pallantides sent word ahead about your leave.” The general and Nermesa’s father were old, trusted comrades. “She was thrilled, of course, and immediately set to work since your journey to Poitain should not take all that long. It is not every day that her only child finally—and I emphasize her here—finally marries.”

  Preparing. In Lady Callista’s case, that meant that Nermesa’s mother was out in the market seeking the most elegant, most glorious fabrics and articles with which to decorate her son’s wedding. Under normal circumstances, it would have been the House of the bride that performed such duties, but Orena could not be expected to do so. Besides, Callista no doubt loved the notion of planning the event. Most of the nobility of Tarantia would be in attendance . . . and there was even a good possibility that the king and queen would make an appearance.

  “I’m sorry to have missed her, Father, but I can’t stay long. The sooner I depart on this journey, the sooner I can be back. Chancellor Publius is already supposed to be preparing the papers for the journey.”

  “You will be riding alone?”

  “Yes, and with my armor carried by a packhorse. A lone but fully clad Black Dragon riding through the countryside would attract as much attention as any armed party.”

  This did not sit well with the patriarch of House Klandes. “You’ll be entirely unprotected? I wasn’t aware of that.”

  Nermesa grinned. “No, my breastplate will be hidden under my tunic.” He patted the sword sheathed at his side. “And I’ll have this with me.”

  The blade had been given to him as a reward from the king for past services. It was jewel-encrusted on the hilt and also had the king’s symbol, the lion—also, coincidentally, House Klandes’ symbol—embossed there. Over the course of his time serving Conan, the shiny, keen-edged blade had saved Nermesa’s life several times over. Yet it still looked as if it had been forged only yesterday.

  His father took some heart from Nermesa’s words. “Well, may Mitra still watch over you. Of course, since you are traveling to Poitain, there shouldn’t be that much to fear. Other than Tarantia and Attalus in the southeast, it’s likely the safest, most civilized place in all Aquilonia . . . perhaps even safer.”

  Even though he himself had never been to the province, Nermesa could not agree more. He had heard tales of sun-drenched Poitain and its almost idyllic landscape. Of course, the reason that the province was so safe was the tremendous fighting abilities of its people. That Poitain was now so quiet was due to its very bloody past.

  “I won’t be able to wait for Mother, I’m afraid. Will you bid her farewell for me?” Nermesa asked.

  Bolontes’ brow arched. “Haven’t I done so each time you’ve missed her?”

  Nermesa gave his father a brief but strong hug. They returned outside, where a servitor held the reins of the knight’s horse. Taking them and remounting, Nermesa nodded to his father.

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  “And you are certain that this is the last mission before you can finally marry Telaria?”

  “The king swears to it.” The new baron grinned. “More to the point, Queen Zenobia’s made him swear to it.”

  The elder Klandes chuckled. “That will guarantee it, then. A swift and smooth journey to you, son.”

  Nermesa saluted his father and rode back to the palace. There, he at last confronted Telaria.

  The auburn-haired lady-in-waiting met him in the cavernous halls of the gigantic, towered structure. Telaria’s pace before she saw him coming from the opposite direction indicated that she had clearly been in the midst of some task for the queen. However, the moment that Nermesa’s presence registered with her, she raised the rounded skirt of her emerald gown and rushed to meet him.

  Their lips touched almost the instant the two lovers reached one another. Nermesa marveled again how a mousy slip of a girl could have transformed in the matter of a few scant years into such a beauty. While her features were very much akin to her blond sister’s—slim nose, full lips, and cheekbones worthy of a sculptor’s tool—Telaria’s had a softness to them that could never have been found in Orena. Her emerald eyes, the same color as those of her sibling, radiated warmth, understanding, and, of course, love. From Baroness Sibelio’s, Nermesa had never seen anything but cold, calculating ambition.

  “Nermesa . . .” she breathed, when at last they separated.

  He saw it in her eyes. “You know.”

  This brought an impish smile to her lips. “The queen, naturally.”

  “You understand I still have to perform this one last task for his majesty?”

  “Queen Zenobia explained it all very well.” Telaria’s smile reversed itself. “It will be simple, won’t it?”

  “Poitain? Of course! Count Trocero is well-beloved of his people, and you’ve met Sir Prospero! There’s nothing to fear in Poitain, nothing at all!”

  Her fears vanished. The smile returned. “It sounds like a lovely place, Poitain. Perhaps we could visit it? I hear that the olive groves are beautiful . . .”

  “We shall see what can be done.” He pulled her toward him again. However, Telaria did not allow the second kiss to last very long.

  “I must be on my way! Two of the other ladies are ill, and so the queen needs my assistance more than ever! After what she’s done, I can hardly be lax now!”

  Aware of how Zenobia had influenced Conan in the matter of the two, Nermesa readily agreed. �
��I leave at first light tomorrow. The road is a well-traveled one, so even though I’ll be riding alone, I likely won’t be by myself most of the time.”

  “Must it really be you? Couldn’t someone else deliver the documents?”

  “If the king and General Pallantides think it necessary to have an officer of the Black Dragons carry them, then I’m honored to be the one chosen.”

  She considered this before stating, “There can only be one reason for adding this last mission, Nermesa. I think that they must be grooming you. They must be considering you for some other position, perhaps on the general’s staff.”

  Nermesa had not thought about that. Other than actually replacing the commander of the Black Dragons himself, a place on his personal staff was the most prestigious position a Black Dragon could achieve. The officers on the staff were privy to secrets and details known otherwise only to the king, Pallantides, and the chancellor. They were in positions of trust and authority that made them among the most powerful men in all the realm.

  The general’s staff. Could it be? Surely not . . . and yet . . .

  “We’re only guessing, and that’s risky,” he finally replied. Still, Nermesa could not hold back a slight smile at the notion. “But it is something to think about.”

  Telaria kissed him soundly on the cheek. “I must go now. Promise me that you won’t let any of those sun-bronzed Poitainian wenches turn your head.”

  “Never.”

  She started off, then suddenly halted again. The change in her expression immediately told Nermesa that the subject upon which the lady-in-waiting was about to speak was not one in which he would find pleasure.