The Silent Enemy

by Richard A. Knaak

  “But he will experience it all, struggle in vain against it, yes?” asked the baroness.

  “He’ll suffer every moment until his life is ended,” Morannus promised. “Every moment.”

  Wulfrim shook his head. “He should still be watched.”

  “And he will be. You and I will escort him. Who would suspect us, after all?”

  This caused not only Wulfrim, but the rest of the Gundermen to chuckle.

  Throughout the conversation, Nermesa attempted to move his limbs, to speak out against his captors . . . but all for naught. The concoction that Orena had used upon him had entirely robbed the Black Dragon of his will. He now existed only to obey those around him. That his mind still functioned independently did not matter.

  And obviously they planned for him some dark deed.

  “Take him back to the crypt, Wulfrim. Come the morning, we shall prepare the Sword of the Lion for his greatest task.”

  “Wait.” Orena walked around Nermesa, inspecting him as a lioness might its meal. “Leave us for a time, Morannus.”

  “Mistress—”

  She suddenly glared down her nose at the bodyguard. “You heard me! Obey, or I shall have you whipped!”

  A frown briefly escaped Morannus, but he buried it before Orena—but not Nermesa—could notice it. “As you like. Wulfrim, you come with me. The rest of you, return to your duties. Tomorrow, things come to a head.”

  In perfect order, the Gundermen departed the garden grove, Morannus and Wulfrim last. Wulfrim left his lamp atop the memorial in order to provide the baroness with more light. Orena watched the men leave, then turned back to the frozen Nermesa.

  “Kneel before me, my love.”

  The knight’s body obeyed without hesitation, going down on one knee directly in front of the baroness. The outer edges of Orena’s full lips twitched upward in amusement.

  “Proclaim my beauty to me.”

  Nermesa fought to keep his mouth shut, but words flowed forth despite his best efforts. “You are beautiful, Orena.”

  This declaration did not satisfy her. “Again. Use more flourish. Tell me that I am the envy of all women, the desire of all men.”

  “No woman is your equal, and their jealousy is great. All men wish to make you theirs.” Each word was to the Black Dragon like venom in his mouth. Still, he felt some small triumph. He had not actually embellished on his original remark, simply repeated what the baroness had said in a different way.

  She, evidently, saw that, too. Her smile turned to a frown, then, with some clear malice, leaned down so that her face was only inches from Nermesa’s. “Tell me that you desire me more than Telaria! Tell me that she is a hag, plain and shapeless, wanted by no one save perhaps beggars in the streets!”

  Inwardly, Nermesa fought as hard as ever to bite back his response, yet, once again he failed. Almost word for word, he said what she asked of him. Even though Bolontes’ son knew that he merely repeated Orena, that nothing he said was true, he burned inside.

  Baroness Sibelio stepped back. “Tomorrow, your downfall and the downfall of all that you hold dear begins, my love. You will utterly fail your king, you will be a pariah to those who once believed in you . . . you will at last feel my humiliation.” Orena scowled. “When I think how much I had to play up to that little brat of a sister! Cooing and being protective and comforting, then, in turn, acting grateful when Telaria sought to comfort me in turn! Pfah! I wanted to spit in her face and slap her to the ground!” She paused, then added, “Yes, you will be humiliated . . . and you will also die knowing that I will rule Aquilonia! That harem trash who sits on the throne will be executed the moment the word comes that her barbarian is dead . . . and, after that, dear Telaria will be punished for her part, too.” Orena clapped her hands in delight. “And all will finally be as it should be! All wrongs will be righted!”

  Without warning, her expression shifted. It took on a look of devilish delight, a mockery of childish glee.

  “Stand up.”

  As before, Nermesa could not help but obey.

  Stepping up to him, Orena murmured, “Let us see how powerful the Gray Lotus scent is. Put your arms around me and kiss me as you would my precious sister. As you would her, you understand?”

  “Yes, Orena.”

  A thousand curses ran through Nermesa’s mind as his arms wrapped around the waist and back of Baroness Sibelio. He silently screamed his rage at Orena even as his lips pressed against hers.

  And as she had commanded, he kissed her as if she were her sister.

  Orena held him in turn, pressing her lips to his . . . then, without warning, pulled them back as if Nermesa had bitten her.

  “Release me!” she shouted. As soon as it was possible, Telaria’s sister stepped away. She glared at the knight with such open hatred that he immediately understood the reason.

  Orena had made a terrible mistake on her part. Nermesa had done exactly as she had commanded . . . and in that moment, the baroness had felt the love, passion, and devotion that Nermesa felt for Telaria.

  Love, passion, and devotion that he had forever denied her despite her wiles.

  “Stand still . . .” she hissed quietly. Her hand slipped into the robe that she had worn in honor of his humiliation. From it, Orena removed a long object.

  A dagger.

  The baroness brought it up with obvious intent. For her, it no longer mattered what task Nermesa was supposed to perform. Now, Orena only desired her former betrothed dead at her feet.

  “Is there something wrong, mistress?” Morannus’s voice suddenly asked from the darkness. The Gunderman emerged from the line of trees, and it was clear to Nermesa that Morannus had been spying on his employer all the while.

  Orena did not even glance at the bodyguard. “I told you to leave us, Morannus.”

  The Gunderman closed on the pair. “But I was concerned for my mistress. I feared that she might become distracted.”

  The baroness turned on him. “Distracted?”

  “From your destiny. As queen, all of Aquilonia will be yours to do with as you please; yet a moment’s desire could complicate matters greatly.” The ponytailed figure nodded toward the Black Dragon. “Destiny set him in our hands when Sir Prospero was lost to us. You can see that it is absolutely necessary that he fulfill his role.”

  Slowly, the dagger came down. Orena smiled. “You’re correct as always, Morannus. When I am queen, I will make you general of my armies! No Gunderman has been honored by Aquilonia with such a reward!”

  “As you say.” He bowed his head slightly, then said, “I must respectfully request that I be permitted to take him now. He must be fit for his mission.”

  “You have my permission.” Her tone cut as sharply as the dagger would have against Nermesa’s throat. “I certainly would not want him ill prepared or late for his audience with his king.”

  “I will personally see to it that all goes as planned,” Morannus returned. “Come, Master Nermesa. We’ve work to do.”

  Orena remained behind in her garden, but as the two men departed, she called out, “The sword! Make certain that he has his precious sword, the one the barbarian awarded him!”

  “He will have it, mistress. And with it, he will change the future of Aquilonia . . .”

  “Good. Very good.”

  Morannus glanced at the captive knight as the pair returned to the house. He nodded grimly to Nermesa. “Yes, my lord, you understand now, I think, what we wish of you, even though your eyes cannot betray that fact.”

  He was correct. Inside, Nermesa struggled in vain to reach out and crush the throat of the Gunderman. He did not care if doing so might only earn him death. Had that been the case, Nermesa would have even rejoiced in his own demise, for it would have saved him from what he considered a far more heinous fate.

  The man who was to assassinate the king was none other than himself.

  18

  HE WAS TO kill a king, possibly the greatest king of all.

  The
king to whom he had sworn his loyalty and his life.

  As Morannus had suggested, Nermesa had all but put the pieces together from what he had earlier heard. Yet, to hear it declared outright—and with such a calm, almost casual air—had been a thousand times more terrible.

  The revelation made, Morannus guided him inside. There, Wulfrim awaited the pair.

  “Well?” asked the second Gunderman. “Was she?”

  “Yes. You’re probably right. We’ll wait for the message to arrive. That’ll decide it.”

  “Good! I tire of this playacting.” Wulfrim suddenly wore an extremely satisfied expression. “It’s almost over. The Brotherhood be praised . . .”

  “Yes,” agreed Morannus solemnly. “The Brotherhood be praised. Bori does watch over us.”

  His comrade gestured at Nermesa. “What about this one?”

  “He has much work to do. He must make himself presentable, a true Black Dragon, worthy of the Cimmerian’s company. It would not do for him to look less so.”

  “A Cimmerian . . .” Wulfrim spat on the glistening marble floor. “The final straw.”

  Morannus patted his companion on the shoulder. “But the ultimate vengeance for Venarium.”

  “Aye, there is that!”

  That said, the pair led Nermesa down to the servants’ level. The knight expected to be brought back to the crypt, but, instead, Morannus steered him toward a large chamber that Nermesa quickly identified as where the household guards would have worked on their gear and practiced with their weaponry.

  “I have something for you, Master Nermesa,” Orena’s bodyguard murmured. “I know you feel lost without it.”

  From a shelf where several swords, maces, and other weapons sat, Morannus removed a sheathed sword.

  Nermesa’s sword.

  “Strap it on. Draw the blade.”

  The Aquilonian obeyed, all the while wishing for just a few seconds of freedom from the Gray Lotus’s spell. Both Gundermen were close enough that a single swing of the blade would end their treacherous lives.

  But he could do nothing, not unless commanded.

  Wulfrim rubbed his chin. “I worry about something. Will he feel compelled to obey anyone who speaks?”

  “No, only the first few voices that he heard within the initial minutes after inhaling the scent. That was why we had to speak his name, while the others kept still. He will only listen to three people now—you, me, and the baroness. No one else.”

  “Good.”

  While they spoke, Nermesa stood there like a statue, sword ready but unmoving. Morannus stepped in front of the knight, the tip of the blade pointed at the Gunderman’s chest.

  “You will practice, Master Nermesa, practice your finest moves. You will practice hard until I tell you to cease.” He glanced back at Wulfrim. “Make certain that the others know what to do after we depart. Nothing must be left to chance.”

  “What about you?”

  “I would watch Master Nermesa practice. I’ve always admired his skill with the blade.”

  Chuckling at this, Wulfrim departed. Morannus turned back to the Aquilonian.

  “Begin.”

  Nermesa’s body suddenly went into action. As the Gunderman stepped back to observe, Bolontes’ son put himself through every pace a Black Dragon learned. He lunged, he parried, he feinted, he kicked. Every maneuver he had learned from his teachers, even those known only to the elite unit, he displayed for Morannus.

  The Gunderman remained silent at first save for an occasional grunt of approval and, as he had said to Wulfrim, obvious admiration. However, as the practice went on, Orena’s bodyguard suddenly gave Nermesa a new and curious command.

  He allowed the knight to speak freely.

  His body continuing to go through its paces, the knight’s initial words were a long list of expletives that made Morannus shake his head in wonder.

  “Such language! You were once a quieter, more proper person, Master Nermesa.”

  “Let me go, damn you! Release me from this potion!”

  Morannus shrugged. “I’m afraid that’s not possible. The only way for you to be free is for there to be no one who can command you anymore.”

  “Then come stand before my sword again so that I can eliminate one voice now.”

  “Even if I stood before you, you could not slay me. You will slay only whom I decide. The Cimmerian.”

  “But why? All this for some noble’s gold?”

  His comment brought first a harsh laugh from Morannus, then a glare. “Do you know me so little? Do you think gold is what this is all about?”

  “Then why else help some fool set himself upon the throne, a fool who might make Namedides seem kindly?”

  “We have no intention of that. The only use any noble has for us is to provide us with the resources that we need to accomplish our task.” Morannus nodded at the move Nermesa’s body made just then. “An interesting display, that.”

  The Aquilonian ignored the comment. “Then, what? Do you think to set yourself upon the throne? Do you believe a Gunderman would make a better king than a Cimmerian?”

  A sigh escaped the ponytailed figure. He almost looked disappointed in Nermesa. “Still you do not understand! Each time, I think that it becomes clear, but not so.”

  The Gunderman walked over to the weapons cache, drawing out a sword. However, he did not come to face Nermesa as the Aquilonian had hoped. Instead, Morannus held up the blade for his puppet to see.

  “Forged in my homeland, Master Nermesa. A good, serviceable blade. For a steady, patient hand. We are a patient people overall. We have watched the kings of Aquilonia rise and fall, have fought for most and against some, too.”

  “You fought . . . for King Conan when he . . . came to overthrow Namedides!” Nermesa said, gasping from exertion.

  “Necessary at the time, just as this is necessary, too.” The bodyguard moved his hair so that the Black Dragon could see the tattoo. “You saw this mark. The helmet over the ax and sword. It is the symbol of the Brotherhood of Bori. You know of Bori?”

  “A god . . . once worshipped in Gunderland—”

  “You are wrong. A god still worshipped much in my homeland. We accept Mitra as we accept Aquilonia, but Bori is the true heart of Gunderland . . . and the symbol of our freedom.”

  “Freedom . . . from Aquilonia?” Gunderland had so long been a part of the kingdom that Nermesa could not fathom it as a separate entity.

  “Yes . . . and that can only be accomplished if Aquilonia no longer exists.”

  Unable to cease the exercises that Morannus had ordered him to perform, Nermesa at first did not comprehend what the Gunderman had said. Then, as the statement sank in, the Black Dragon decided that the figure before him was as mad as Orena if not even more so.

  “What do you—what do you mean ‘if Aquilonia no longer exists’? Aquilonia is Aquilonia, no matter who sits upon the throne!”

  “But what if there is no more throne? The Brotherhood of Bori has worked toward that end for years, manipulating one drama after another, acting in silence and shadow. Never with one plan, either, but several. When I first met you, my lord, I had another fate in mind. You were already set to marry the Lady Orena Lenaro. The combination of your two houses would have proven tremendous. Over time, you would have been influenced by me, a trusted comrade. I knew that you wanted to become a Black Dragon and that you were capable of achieving that goal. I even supported you, you recall?”

  Nermesa recalled the many times that he had taken advice from Morannus. Now, each of those moments seemed suspect.

  “At the time, you were considered a potential source of information on the layout of the palace. That was all. Then, when you broke the betrothal, it forced a recalculation, one that, fortunately, we had prepared for. One that led us to a different choice, a different puppet . . . Baron Antonus Sibelio.”

  “Betavio—”

  Morannus gave him a look of approval. “Yes, Betavio. Betavio, who whispered in the baron’s ea
r that he should be king. Betavio, who, when matters there ran afoul of you, understood that he had to be sacrificed for the greater good.” Before Nermesa could express his disgust, the other went on, “Betavio was not alone in his task, either. Nearly every noble has a Gunderman in a place of trust, and several of those belong to the Brotherhood. Wulfrim’s role in Poitain was another example, although in that case, it was a simpler matter of bringing the ambitious Lord Eduarco and his more ambitious bride into a part of the plan. He, like the Lady Orena, believed he would be rewarded with a position of high power . . . rule over Poitain once Count Trocero was dead.”

  The complexity of the Gunderman’s plans astounded Nermesa. He recalled Captain Dante and some of the other Gundermen he had met in roles of authority. How many of those had been members of this brotherhood?

  “And you have others in Nemedia, Zingara, the Westermarck . . . and elsewhere, don’t you? That’s why Tarascus would risk himself despite the instability of his own throne!”

  “Yes. He is a bigger fool than most. Tarascus will live only long enough to see that King Conan is dead. After that, he, too, will fall.”

  The Black Dragon could not believe what he was hearing. “But if both perish, the anarchy—”

  Morannus toyed with the Gunderman sword. “The anarchy will envelop both kingdoms. Zingara and Argos, too. Corinthia and Brythunia will struggle to survive. The repercussions shall spread farther.” The bodyguard’s gaze darkened. “Gunderland will have no master ever again.”

  “You’re mad!” Nermesa struggled against the Gray Lotus, but still his body continued to exercise. “Gunderland will fall with the rest.”

  “Gunderland existed long before Aquilonia, before Nemedia, and most of the others. We will exist long after Aquilonia is only a well-forgotten memory.” Morannus put away the sword, then looked back at his captive. “Enough training. Stand at attention with your mouth shut.”

  The Aquilonian’s body immediately obeyed. Sweat poured down Nermesa’s forehead, and his pulse pounded, yet most of that was due not to his exertions, but rather to what Morannus had revealed to him.