The Silent Enemy

by Richard A. Knaak

  But that was apparently not to be. Instead, the lead Gunderman stuck the shining sword through his belt. He then looked at those behind the prisoner.

  “Bori smiles upon us!” said the leader. “I came here, desperate to seek another answer to our problem, and then you appear alive and whole! What could I do but not let such a gift escape us again?”

  The knight struggled, but, again, to no avail.

  “Gently now,” mocked Wulfrim. “He’s important to us.”

  A heavy hand holding a moist cloth closed over Nermesa’s nostrils and mouth. The Aquilonian tried not to inhale, but eventually had to do so. Immediately, a dull sensation filled his head . . . and a moment later the world turned as black as Wulfrim’s heart.

  16

  NERMESA LAY IN a dreamless sleep. Yet, perhaps “sleep” was not the perfect word for his condition, for he vaguely sensed that he drifted in darkness long beyond any normal slumber. The knight also sensed that there were others around him, others who spoke low and in tones that hinted of sinister intentions.

  Once, Nermesa almost stirred to waking, but something was pressed against his mouth and nose, and soon he returned to the smothering discomfort of the darkness.

  At last, though, he began to hear distinct voices. Sensation slowly returned to his body. He could not move, but now the Black Dragon understood that his limbs were bound and that at present a gag prevented him from even moaning out loud. His eyes were also covered, preventing the captive Aquilonian from discovering just where he was.

  One voice briefly became intelligible. “Move him there,” it commanded. “And carefully. He must be in fit condition.”

  Someone else spoke.

  “Yes, the sword, too,” replied the first voice. “It will be most appropriate and symbolic.”

  After that, the voice faded into the background, and Nermesa again drifted off. This time, however, he sensed that it was not for very long. As the knight gradually drifted toward consciousness again, he felt his backside pressing against something cold. Stone, perhaps. When Nermesa tried to move his arms, the knight heard the clink of metal and discovered that his limbs were now restricted in a different manner. His arms and legs were stretched out at angles from one another. He felt manacles on his wrists and fetters on his ankles.

  For a long time, there was no sound save his breathing and the occasional chitter of rats from varying places around him. Then the slow clatter of footsteps sent the rats scurrying and, minutes later, the cloth around Nermesa’s eyes was torn away.

  A bright light momentarily seared his eyes. Nermesa let out a gasp and turned his head to the side.

  The light receded slightly. A rough hand seized the Aquilonian’s jaw and forced him to look up again.

  Wulfrim’s mocking countenance filled his gaze. The Gunderman pulled his hand back and moved his fingers, watching the prisoner’s reactions.

  “Nothing wrong with your sight. Good. We want to keep those eyes as sharp as your sword.”

  “Damn—” Nermesa managed to croak. His defiance ended in a long cough, the result of not having had any liquid for more than a day.

  “Give him some water,” suggested another voice . . . and one that sounded vaguely familiar to the knight.

  Nermesa tried to see what the other looked like, but the face was hidden behind the glare of the oil lamp in the second figure’s hand. All he could tell with any certainty was that it was another Gunderman.

  Wulfrim acknowledged his companion’s suggestion with a nod, then brought up a water sack to Nermesa’s lips. Despite wanting to spit in his adversary’s eye, the Aquilonian had no choice but to drink all that Wulfrim offered. It refreshed the knight somewhat, enabling him at last to focus a bit more on his surroundings.

  Only then did he discover that he was in a crypt. Vaults lined both walls flanking him. Worse, it slowly registered on Nermesa that he was chained to the top of a marble sarcophagus displayed in the center of the dank chamber.

  “Don’t bother with those chains,” Wulfrim growled. “They’re new and won’t break.”

  “What do you want with me?”

  “What we wanted from Sir Prospero. What you can do for us better than even he could have.”

  As the Gunderman talked, Nermesa for the first time noticed that there was a tiny tattoo on his neck near the back. If not for the way Wulfrim’s hair presently hung, it would have been completely obscured.

  His captor saw where he was staring. “The Brotherhood of Bori. Know it. It is your master.”

  “Spare the melodramatics,” his comrade uttered. “They are wasted on him.”

  “You think he’s special. He’s just another Aquilonian pig.”

  “Who kept you on the run quite well.”

  Wulfrim turned his glare on the other Gunderman. “I was fulfilling my part of this . . . the most important part of this.”

  “No,” admonished the other, thrusting the lamp toward Nermesa and nearly blinding him again. “He has the most important part in this.”

  Nermesa shook his chains despite the fact that he knew that, as the Gundermen had claimed, they would not break. “I will do nothing for you! Nothing!”

  With a chuckle, Wulfrim withdrew the water sack, then melted into the darkness. The faceless Gunderman remained a moment more, adding as he left, “Yes, you will do everything for us . . . and then the waiting will be at an end at last.”

  He backed away, his face still hidden from the captive knight. The Gundermen’s footsteps faded away. Once more, Nermesa was left alone in darkness.

  Unable to free himself, he tried to focus his thoughts on what he knew. He was in Aquilonia, of that Nermesa was certain, and from what he had seen of the crypt, it had the look of one belonging to a single family of some wealth. The chamber had not been huge, and the markings that he recalled on the various plates had all had the same symbol, a creature of some sort. It had been difficult to tell much more with only the single lamp to illuminate things.

  Nermesa tried to recall what towns or cities were near enough for such an estate to exist. Unfortunately, he could imagine only one location.

  The Gundermen had taken him back to Tarantia.

  That revelation made Nermesa bitter. He was farther away from King Conan, at least three days back. Now, the knight was certain that there was no hope of reaching his lord in time to save the Cimmerian’s life.

  But what did they want of Nermesa, then? Information still, certainly. Essential information, too, from the manner in which both men had talked.

  Nermesa suddenly took some heart from that. If it was so important, it surely had to do with King Conan, who could not yet be dead, then. That meant that there was a chance to salvage victory from defeat . . . if Nermesa could suffer through whatever tortures his captors had in mind.

  Bound there, in the dark, he lost track of time again. His mind constantly searched for some way by which to escape, but unless the Gundermen undid his chains, Nermesa could think of none.

  Footsteps again alerted him well in advance of someone’s coming, not that the knowledge did the Black Dragon any good. The knight watched as light slowly filtered into the crypt. This time, though, it was Wulfrim alone. The Gunderman held the lamp in one hand, while in the other he carried what appeared to be a tray of food.

  Without a word, Wulfrim set the lamp on another sarcophagus. He then brought the tray over to the prisoner.

  “Lift your head,” the Gunderman commanded. “Unless you want to choke.”

  “Your masters wouldn’t like that,” retorted Nermesa.

  Wulfrim glowered. “I have no masters . . .” He tore a piece from a loaf of bread. “Now eat.”

  Aware that he had to keep his strength up, the Aquilonian obeyed as best he could. Wulfrim stuffed his mouth anew with food the moment after Nermesa swallowed. In addition to the bread, there was a tepid broth with vegetables, and more water.

  The water soon presented Nermesa with another difficulty. Pulling back his head from an
other mouthful of bread, he informed Wulfrim of his situation.

  The Gunderman grunted. “Should let you just suffer here.” He mused on it a moment, then, added, “All right. I’ll be back soon.”

  The northerner left the lamp behind. Nermesa watched him vanish out of the crypt. Shortly after, he heard Wulfrim calling to someone else.

  Wulfrim returned with two other Gundermen, both of whom had their swords out. From his belt, Wulfrim procured the keys to the chains.

  “Don’t think that we can’t beat you up a little, dog,” he warned the Aquilonian. “You do what you have to, then go quietly back to your chains, understand?”

  Nermesa nodded. The lead Gunderman unlocked his legs first, then his arms. It took the knight a moment to undo the kinks in his limbs. His muscles screamed at first, then gradually proved malleable enough.

  With two swords pointed at his torso, Nermesa stood. To his surprise, Wulfrim did not send him to a corner of the crypt, but instead led the prisoner out into the corridor.

  “Turn left at the corner. Here. This chamber has a sewage grate.”

  The empty, stone chamber had no windows, no other exits. The sewage grate that Wulfrim had mentioned was too small to escape through, yet, as he bent down, the knight secretly tested the iron bars across it.

  And as he had hoped, one of those bars came loose.

  Nermesa went into a coughing fit. At the same time, he tugged the bar free.

  “What’s the matter with you?” growled Wulfrim. “Finish in there now!”

  Standing, the Black Dragon secreted the bar in his palm and along the length of his forearm. He kept the back of his hand to his guards as he approached. If the light had been better, they might have noticed his ploy, but the shadows worked in Nermesa’s favor . . . for the moment.

  One of the other Gundermen reached for Nermesa as he neared.

  With one smooth movement, the knight slipped the bar farther down in his grip, turning it into a club, which he then brought up against the guard’s unprotected head.

  There was a savage crack, and the Gunderman fell. Nermesa immediately barreled into the other guard, who was still startled by the sudden attack.

  “Grab him, damn you!” shouted Wulfrim from behind them. He tried to draw his own weapon, only to become pinned against the wall by the two lunging bodies.

  Nermesa shoved the bar into the other guard’s stomach, driving the air out. He then punched the man hard in the jaw, sending him crashing to the ground.

  Wulfrim struggled to draw his sword. However, he had it only halfway out before Nermesa, seizing the fallen guard’s blade, held his captor at bay.

  “Remove that weapon very slowly and you might live,” he warned Wulfrim.

  Eyes blazing, the Gunderman obeyed. Nermesa took the sword from him and set it far away.

  “Now,” he went on, “you are going to lead me out of here, and the first mistake you make, I’ll run you through and take my chances on my own.”

  “You will never leave here,” warned the Gunderman. “Not until we let you.”

  “We shall see about that. Now be silent!”

  Nermesa would have liked to question Wulfrim about the plot, but did not want their voices to attract any attention. What was most important was to find a way out of this place and discover exactly where in the capital he was. Ironically, he could not be all that far from the palace, for that was where most of the older, more prominent families kept their ancestral homes. Very likely, Nermesa even knew to some extent the traitor. It would not be the first time that supposed friends proved to be duplicitous. Such seemed an inherent part of his caste, the so-called nobility.

  Wulfrim grudgingly guided him along the featureless, empty corridor. Nermesa saw no guards and assumed that the two that he had taken had to be the only ones on duty. Why not, since the prisoner had been securely shackled? That raised his hopes of making his escape.

  They came to an intersection. Nermesa eyed the three directions that the pair could go. Wulfrim made no move toward any one of them, and the Aquilonian suspected that his captive was plotting something.

  “Choose the correct path,” the knight whispered in the Gunderman’s ear. “The least hint of trouble, and I kill you.”

  Wulfrim merely nodded and his stony expression concerned Nermesa. He shifted the tip of the blade to the side of the other fighter’s neck, near the jugular.

  “Choose the correct path,” the Black Dragon repeated.

  After another brief hesitation, Wulfrim indicated the left turn. Nermesa eyed the other directions, saw nothing that hinted that they were better choices, then reluctantly urged the Gunderman to the left.

  As they moved on, Nermesa recalled the last time he had been in a similar predicament. Then, it had been at the country estate of Baron Sibelio. Once more, he wondered if Wulfrim’s masters had been a part of that conspiracy. It made some sense; much of the groundwork would have already been in place.

  Wulfrim appeared to have taken Nermesa’s warning to heart, for the two still had not come across any guards. It was not until they neared a stone stairway that the knight heard the cough up ahead. Thrusting Wulfrim against the wall and keeping the sword’s point on his neck, the Aquilonian glanced toward the steps.

  The lone guard had the look of another Gunderman. He had clearly been on duty for some time, for there were hints of laxness in his stance. He had begun to lean back against the wall and spent much of his time staring at the floor. Yet the man still held his sword ready, should something happen.

  Turning to Wulfrim, Nermesa murmured, “Call him . . . carefully.”

  Glaring at the knight, the captive obeyed. “Joronian! I need you to give us a hand!”

  There was a scraping sound as would be made by the boots of someone coming to attention. They were followed by rapid footsteps.

  “Coming, Wulfrim!” Joronian called.

  Nermesa estimated the time before the other Gundermen would reach them. He did not move, but kept the blade pressed against his captive.

  The guard turned the corner . . . and at sight of Nermesa, raised his weapon.

  “Lower it!” Nermesa demanded in a low voice. “Lower it, or I run him through!”

  He had counted on Wulfrim’s being of some importance and, to his hidden relief, that proved to be the case. The guard dropped his arm.

  “Put the sword on the floor and step back from it.”

  The Gunderman bent down to obey.

  Wulfrim let out a growl and swung one hand up at Nermesa’s blade. The impetuous act stunned the knight for only a second, but it was enough to save Wulfrim’s life. The blade scarred the Gunderman’s neck, even drew blood, but did not hit the jugular.

  As Wulfrim acted, the guard started to rise. Nermesa, expecting this, turned his aborted attack against his first foe into a sweeping swing toward the second.

  Where he had failed with Wulfrim, the Aquilonian succeeded with the guard. His blade cut an arc across both the man’s face and throat. The guard let out a cry and collapsed.

  But in the meantime, Wulfrim made good his escape, fleeing past Nermesa in the direction of the steps. He was already up the first one by the time the Black Dragon started after him.

  Nermesa had no choice but to follow. He raced to the steps, leaping up two at a time in the hope of cutting the gap. Yet Wulfrim was fresh, whereas Nermesa still suffered lingering effects from being bound for much of the past few days. The Gunderman reached the top well before the knight, then vanished from view.

  And as Nermesa finished climbing, he heard Wulfrim call out.

  Cursing, the Aquilonian paused at the top to see where best he might go. He now stood in a corridor of the sort used by servants in most of the major estates. Such corridors were generally located on a sublevel just below the main floor and thus kept the servants out of view of their masters when they were not wanted. There was a similar arrangement in the Klandes house, although Bolontes Klandes did not set himself so high above his servants a
s many of the aristocracy did.

  But before Nermesa himself could choose which way to turn, Wulfrim decided for the Aquilonian. The escaped Gunderman was followed by three of his countrymen, all armed with long, wicked blades. While Nermesa was fairly certain that they still wanted him alive, he would not put it past Wulfrim to mete out a little punishment for the humiliation the knight had caused him.

  Turning in the opposite direction, Nermesa rushed down the oddly empty hall. While it was possible that some of the servants might be above, tending to their duties, it was strange that not one was in the area . . . unless, of course, there was no one here now save Wulfrim’s pack. The fewer untrustworthy eyes and ears, the better for the plotters.

  Ignoring the shut doors to each side of him, Nermesa hurried toward another stairway at the end of the corridor. This, surely, would lead him up to the main level and better his chances of escape. If he could flee the house itself, he was safe. They would not dare pursue him beyond it, not if he also raised much noise in the process. While Nermesa wished that he could stand and fight, he knew that the better part of valor was to escape and warn the palace. Then, with other Black Dragons, he could return to finish the task.

  As he ran up the steps, Nermesa glanced back. To his relief, Wulfrim and the others had fallen well behind. Nermesa did not question his good fortune but did thank Mitra for it.

  A thick, wooden door greeted him at the top of the steps. At first, the Aquilonian feared that it would prove locked, thus the reason for the slowness of his pursuers. However, when he tried the handle, Nermesa happily found the door able to be opened. He burst through, ready for any sudden attack. When none came, the knight immediately turned around and slammed the door shut behind him. Unfortunately, there was no manner by which to bolt or lock it.

  Taking a breath, Nermesa abandoned the door and took his first glance at his new surroundings.

  Surroundings that he recognized.