The Silent Enemy

by Richard A. Knaak

  “May your swords be sharp and swift,” rumbled the king. With a grin, he added, “And may the blood of many Nemedians keep your blades soaked!”

  And so, the Aquilonian host pushed toward its foe. It was a tableau like none that Nermesa had witnessed in his life. He wanted to feel proud but knew that all this might would not save King Conan.

  Morannus leaned close. “The battle must be joined first. In the heat of it, the others will be distracted. Remember, I will call your name when the time is ripe.”

  Nermesa inwardly cursed the Gunderman a thousand times over, not that doing so made him feel at all better.

  The first rays of the sun peeked out over the mountains. The king and General Pallantides had maneuvered their host so that it would face the dawn less directly. It was impossible completely to remove the Nemedians’ natural advantage as they logically had to come from the east. However, by angling the course his forces had to take, Conan had guaranteed that the sun would be more in the corner of his men’s eyes, not directly in front. He had also made certain that everyone wore visored helmets, further reducing the chance of blindness.

  Ironically, Morannus’s band had also been given such helmets. They would not need them long, though, the Brotherhood of Bori intending to slip away in the pandemonium that would follow the king’s death. The Gundermen were willing to die for their cause, but only if necessary.

  And as the dawn arrived, the first hints of the Nemedian host became apparent on the horizon in the form of dust clouds spread all along the east. Then, faintly seen banners—banners that Nermesa knew bore the dragon symbol of King Tarascus—thrust up into the sky. Minutes later, what seemed one vast, fluid shape poured toward the Aquilonians. It was far wider than Nermesa had thought it would be, and he wondered if Tarascus had managed to muster more men than had been anticipated. It was possible that the Nemedians might yet win, especially if somehow their monarch survived where Conan did not. If so, that would be a fate almost as dreadful as the complete fall of Aquilonia. Tarascus would take great pleasure in wreaking his vengeance on anything related to his Cimmerian rival.

  Nermesa suddenly jolted in the saddle as his mount stepped onto a rocky, uneven patch of earth. The movement caused his armor to shift. Part of it scraped the burn.

  If anything, the shock of pain that raced through his body felt even worse than what he had felt during the actual burning. The knight let out a gasp, then bit his lip to stem the agonizing tide.

  General Pallantides turned back to him. “You said something, Nermesa?”

  Bolontes’ son opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. Almost at the same time, Morannus quickly interjected, “Nay, General! I had merely asked him a short question to which he replied. Is that not so, Master Nermesa?”

  To the Black Dragon’s fury, he could only reply, “Yes.”

  Pallantides returned his gaze to the forefront. Out of the corner of his eye, Nermesa could sense Morannus studying him close. However, the Gunderman evidently noticed nothing amiss, for he also turned his attention to the coming conflict.

  But the battle was now the least of matters to Nermesa, for he suddenly realized just what had happened. The power of the Gray Lotus had failed under the pressure of the pain. However brief that they had been, the gasp and lip biting had been the Aquilonian’s own reactions.

  But what did that mean? What did he have to do to free himself completely . . . if such a thing was even possible?

  A horn sounded . . . a horn from the growing shape before them. The Nemedian force was moving forward at a brisk pace, seemingly very eager to match weapons with Aquilonia’s superior one. King Tarascus was betting everything on his rival’s death. Conan held together the differing elements of his host. The other commanders—old-family nobles all—would, upon his loss, immediately seek to take control themselves. Some might listen to General Pallantides, but enough would not. Then it would not matter how much greater the Aquilonia force was; an emboldened Nemedia would cut it to shreds.

  Nermesa focused again on his brief freedom. What could he do to repeat it, to build upon it? He had tried his best to ignore the sharp pain, but—would it have been better to concentrate on it?

  The Nemedians were near enough for Conan’s forces to see them as individual warriors. They wore plain breastplates and helms with dragon crests. Most were in kilts and sandals. The foremost line had pikes and swords, but behind them would also be lines of archers, as was the case with the Aquilonians. It would first be a matter of seeing whose archers were most effective, and while Aquilonia was blessed with Bossonians, one could not discount the skill of Tarascus’s people.

  There would also come rank upon rank of knights, just as with Nermesa’s side. He could even see some of them massing, waiting for the signal to charge. Whatever the outcome, there would be much bloodshed on both sides.

  “Sound the horns!” shouted Pallantides. “Archers to the ready!”

  Even as the Aquilonian horns blared, so, too, did those of Nemedia.

  King Conan drew his great broadsword, raising it high. A minute passed, and still he did not let his arm drop.

  But on the enemy’s side, another horn sounded. Immediately after, a horrific hissing sound filled the air as hundreds of arrows arced into the sky in the direction of the Aquilonians.

  “Steady!” shouted Pallantides. “Shields up!”

  Men in the front ranks quickly raised their round shields as the deadly missiles rained down upon them. Scores of arrows thunked against metal. Some screams arose as bolts slipped past and pierced legs, arms, and chests. In Nermesa’s limited view, four men fell, two of them surely dead.

  But the majority of the arrows dropped harmlessly to the ground ahead of the Aquilonians. Tarascus had been too eager; his men had fired before the enemy was close enough for the assault to be of great value.

  King Conan lowered his arm in a swift slash.

  Aquilonian horns gave the signal. A new and more vast flight of arrows shot up, this time toward the Nemedians.

  The shrill hisses sent chills through Nermesa even though it was his side who had fired. He could see the arc of the arrows and knew that King Conan had calculated better than his counterpart. The bolts dropped down on the Nemedian soldiers . . .

  As his own side had done, the enemy raised its shields. However, the Aquilonian arrows flew farther into the mass of bodies. Many arrows bounced off shields and armor, but many others struck true. Men fell by the score, both in the front and farther back. Whatever toll Nemedia had taken on Aquilonia, Aquilonia had returned the favor at least a hundredfold.

  Morannus leaned toward him again. “Know this! You will follow my orders as to the king, even should an arrow take me first! Recall also that Wulfrim still holds sway over you and that he, too, will make certain of the deed!”

  Nermesa judged the distance between the two forces. There would be one more volley from each side, then the battle would be joined.

  Then Nermesa would seek to slay his king.

  There was the chance that the attempt might fail, that someone, perhaps even King Conan, would realize what was happening before it was too late. A chance, yes, but a small one, for even now, all the knight had to do was urge his mount over a few paces and he would be within striking range of the giant Cimmerian’s neck.

  The Nemedians fired again, this time to greater effect. Several soldiers—including Gundermen pikemen—fell to the assault despite the shields. Nermesa could see just enough of Morannus’s expression to note that his captor seemed as untouched by their demise as those of the Aquilonians and Bossonians. For his cause, he was clearly willing to sacrifice anyone.

  Nermesa’s side responded again. They made the Nemedians pay heavily for each death. Whatever disadvantage Tarascus had originally had in terms of numbers, it was surely much greater now. More than ever, he would need King Conan’s death.

  Pallantides waved his hand, and yet another signal blared forth. The archers slowed, letting other elements
of the host move ahead of them. They would remain a vital part of the struggle, but by firing from the rear as the lines met. Their task now was to worry those in back, just as the Nemedian bowmen would be attempting.

  The two sides were so close now that faces and expressions could be seen with some clarity. Nemedians were much the same stock as their enemy. Nermesa was reminded suddenly that his queen was of their blood, although she had forsaken any loyalty to her homeland long before she had even married the king. For Zenobia, Nemedia’s victory would be an even more terrible thing, for she dared not fall into their hands. It was her freeing of Conan that had set in motion Nemedia’s last, ignominious defeat, and the knight was aware that there were elements of Tarascus’s council who, given the chance, would have eagerly sought her torture and death.

  Something else that might happen because of Nermesa . . . Conan again raised his broadsword high. Nermesa knew that he was about to send his host forward at a full pace. Mounted knights and men-at-arms would ride at the forefront, breaking open the way for those on foot. With those not mounted, however, would come other riders providing protection. Pikemen from both sides would attempt to shatter the enemy’s charge by skewering the mounted fighters as they approached.

  And Nermesa would then head for the king’s unprotected back.

  Conan dropped his arm.

  With a collective shout, the Aquilonians surged forward. Scarcely a breath later, the Nemedians did the same.

  As his horse picked up its pace, Nermesa was again jostled in the saddle. Not as much as before, but enough so that he received another jolt of pain from the burn. The desperate knight seized on that pain, dwelling on it. It was just the opposite of what he had been trained, for a knight who did not shrug off such things usually did not survive long. Yet now, Nermesa believed it to be his only salvation.

  The armies drew nearer. Twenty paces separated them, then fifteen, then ten, then—

  The Aquilonians and Nemedians collided with an audible crash. In the first seconds alone, likely a hundred men on each side perished. Swords clashed. Knights went flying out of their saddles, and pikemen braced themselves. Unmounted men-at-arms fell with their throats cut or their heads even severed as figures in plate mail charged past on huge, snorting beasts. Cries arose everywhere. Good men—and Nermesa knew that there were such on each side—perished in grisly manners, often with limbs sliced off and bellies torn open. The life fluids pouring out of wounds quickly muddied the ground beneath the combatants’ feet.

  And as it all took place, Nermesa felt his body move. His sword, already drawn, lowered slightly. His gaze turned toward the right.

  Toward King Conan.

  “Do it!” hissed Morannus from somewhere behind the knight.

  The Black Dragon pulled away from the Gunderman, heading with determination that was not his own toward his liege. Nermesa silently screamed at himself that this could not happen, but still his body maneuvered the horse closer and closer.

  At that moment, King Conan, preparing to push into the fray and take his share of the kills, seemed to sense someone closing on him. To Nermesa’s joy, the Cimmerian glanced over his shoulder, straightened, then eyed the oncoming figure directly.

  He knows! Nermesa cried to himself. He knows!

  Conan raised his broadsword—then saluted the knight. With a grin, the king turned to focus on the fighters ahead, leaving his back wide open.

  Crestfallen, Nermesa almost gave in to what appeared inevitable. It seemed the will of Mitra—or perhaps, Bori—that he would yet be the hand of the brotherhood’s will.

  No! Nermesa had grown up admiring the legendary feats of King Conan, but more so than that, he had been struck by the Cimmerian’s code of honor. Few men could match it, and fewer still who had ruled Aquilonia in the past. To the son of Bolontes Klandes, the former mercenary with the smoldering blue eyes and set jaw represented the epitome of a true ruler. He could not imagine another man upon the throne . . .

  Yet, his grip tightened on his sword. He continued to steer his mount toward the king.

  The sea of bodies forced his steed to step gingerly. In doing so, Nermesa felt the pain of the burn jolt him more. He eagerly drank in the agony, hoping against hope that it would still serve him.

  General Pallantides, his back also to Nermesa, shouted at the men in front. “Keep those lines secure! Dragons! Get that wedge tightened! The king follows!”

  All eyes were on the bloodshed ahead. No one paid Nermesa the least mind. His horse slipped past one more oblivious rider—a fellow Black Dragon—and moved into a position next to the flank of the king’s own steed.

  All the while, Nermesa struggled with the pain, using it to fuel his own determination. It was a far worse struggle than when he had been seeking to escape Set-Anubis’s spell, for the pain of the burn also, in its way, distracted him from his efforts. Yet, he had no other choice.

  The king’s back now filled his entire view. Nermesa gritted his teeth . . . then realized that he had actually done so. His hopes stirred anew, he threw his entire will as he had never done before into escaping the Gray Lotus.

  But at the same time, his arm suddenly rose. Nermesa saw King Conan lean forward, in the Cimmerian’s eagerness to meet the enemy, bending his head and opening a gap between his armor and his helmet.

  The blade gripped tighter than ever, Nermesa’s arm dropped hard.

  21

  NERMESA LET OUT a scream that caused his horse to rear. Only after he had done it did the knight comprehend that it had actually been audible.

  More important, the horse’s reaction had ruined his aim. Lifted up, Nermesa cut only empty air, not his lord’s flesh. As the knight struggled in the saddle, King Conan moved on, unaware of how close he had come to death.

  The arm that held the sword stretched toward its receding target, but Nermesa did not follow. The hand that held the reins instead kept them pulled back, slowing the horse almost to a complete stop. A struggle took place within Nermesa as the Gray Lotus attempted to regain control.

  Morannus suddenly reappeared at his side. The Gunderman was seething and did not at all attempt to hide that fact.

  “Go! Hurry! When he’s engaged an opponent, it will be the perfect opportunity! Go!”

  Nermesa’s legs started to prod the horse in the sides . . . then froze. The Aquilonian forced his head toward Morannus, the strain of doing so nearly causing Nermesa to black out.

  “No . . .” he finally succeeded in responding. “Never . . .”

  For the first time, the traitorous bodyguard looked stunned. “Impossible! You cannot be resist the Gray Lotus!”

  Slowly—and more awkwardly than perhaps Morannus knew—Nermesa brought his sword around toward the Gunderman. “I’m rid of it . . . and soon you, too!”

  With a growl, Morannus readily parried the attack. He countered, only Nermesa’s breastplate saving the Black Dragon from death.

  “You are not completely rid of it,” the northerner sneered. “Not by those moves! But you are no good to us, anymore, and you know too much! I am so very sorry, Master Nermesa . . .” Morannus’s tone mocked the polite facade he had worn well for the past several years. “but I would have had to slay you later, regardless!”

  He attacked again, lunging across and cutting the Aquilonian across the sword arm. Grimacing, Nermesa could only work to defend himself. His reflexes were too slow for him to do that and attack, at least not yet. Given the chance, those reflexes would improve, but he doubted that Morannus would allow him the time.

  Yet if he were to die, it would be knowing that the brotherhood’s plot had failed. Now the king could deal with Tarascus, then turn his sights to restoring order in the west and southwest.

  Morannus lunged. This time, Nermesa parried his attack with more ease. The effects of the Gray Lotus were fading faster than he had hoped. He had a chance after all . . .

  The Gunderman clearly noted that, too, for he now attacked in earnest. Morannus was well aware of Nermesa�
��s true skills and did not wish to face them.

  Then, the northerner’s eyes narrowed. He looked past his foe. Nermesa started to follow his gaze, but Morannus suddenly pulled tight on the reins, pointed at Nermesa, and shouted, “Take him!”

  The moment he was finished, Morannus turned his mount. Without hesitation, he rode against the current of soldiers, his laughter mocking.

  Nermesa finally glanced behind him . . . to see Morannus’s minions sweeping after him. Unwilling to let the master-mind of the brotherhood escape, and more than happy to lead the other traitors from the king, Nermesa let out a defiant shout at the Gundermen behind him, then immediately went in pursuit of his own quarry.

  The path ahead was a difficult one, though, with uncomprehending soldiers pausing to stare up at him rather than quickly moving aside. Fortunately, Morannus could not improve on the gap between them. The pair rode on at almost a snail’s pace. Nermesa paid scant attention to his own pursuers save to make certain that they were still there and not catching up. With the band moving farther and farther away from King Conan, now all that mattered to the knight was dealing with Morannus.

  A mounted man-at-arms moved into view just ahead of the Gunderman. Rising in the saddle, Nermesa shouted, “Stop him! Stop him!”

  The man-at-arms slowed his stallion, but was clearly puzzled by Nermesa’s cry. The soldier eyed Morannus, trying to make sense of things.

  Morannus thrust, running the hapless fighter through the neck.

  “No!” But there was nothing that Nermesa could do for the other Aquilonian. The man-at-arms twitched, then slumped in the saddle. Morannus shoved him aside and moved on. He looked over his shoulder, again taunting the knight with laughter.

  They neared the rear of the host. Nermesa swore, knowing that Morannus would make good his escape once he was no longer encumbered by the sea of bodies. Nermesa urged his mount on, at the same calling out to those in front of him to move.

  Just as it seemed that the Gunderman would break free, his horse stumbled. Morannus fumbled with the reins, but the sword now got in his way. He took a quick look behind him at Nermesa, then went back to trying to right matters.