Nermesa pushed himself up to his knees. As he did, hands seized him, helping the Black Dragon to his feet.
“Easy, Nermesa!” called Prospero from behind him. “It’s a wonder that you can stand at all!”
“He . . . he’s dead, Prospero. Wulfrim’s dead.”
“Yes, I saw it all, from too damn far a distance, I might add. My horse stumbled, throwing me. I was stunned for a minute, and by that time you were far ahead.” The Poitainian came to the side. He slipped Nermesa’s arm over his shoulder. “Hold on to me. You’ve been through a lot.”
“Yes.” Nermesa glanced down at the Gunderman, still not quite certain that Wulfrim might not surprise them by leaping to his feet despite the terrible wounds to both his back and his stomach. However, the corpse remained a corpse.
Then, it occurred to him what had happened. “He saved my life, Prospero. The king saved mine! I’ve sworn to die for him, to protect him, and he turned his back to the battle to come to my aid.”
“I saw that. Conan does not much like stabbing a man from behind, but if he had hesitated, you would be dead, yes.” The Poitainian noble chuckled. “You and the king make quite a fearsome combination, I must say. Mitra help the villains who come against you two.”
“He saved my life,” Nermesa repeated, now eyeing the Cimmerian’s dwindling back. The king was in the heaviest part of the fighting, but the Nemedians seemed more concerned with escaping his sword rather than actually facing him. It was clear that the battle would soon be over, especially once Tarascus and Morannus’s agents on the opposing side realized that the assassination had failed.
Helping Nermesa toward the rear, Prospero chuckled again at the Aquilonian’s comments. “Well, after all,” he murmured, a smile across his regal features, “he is Conan.”
22
TARASCUS, HIS ARMY already suffering heavy losses, capitulated barely an hour after the failure of the Brotherhood of Bori to assassinate King Conan. Conan allowed the Nemedian monarch to return home, but only after forcing further concessions from his rival. Pallantides, who oversaw the exchange, later told Nermesa that there was a very good chance that Tarascus would not hold the throne much longer. This second, disastrous failure would erode what little support he had. True, Conan could have used the moment to remove the other king permanently, but preferred not to at this juncture. The Gundermen with Tarascus were taken prisoner, the Nemedian ruler never understanding that they would have eventually assassinated him as well.
The news of Nemedia’s debacle must have flown magically to the southwest, for, barely days later, Poitain’s foes melted back into their homelands without so much as a word. As Count Trocero later put it, “We camped across from the enemy that night and, in the morning, found that we were camped by ourselves.”
As for the Westermarck, when word filtered back that the Lion Spirit still lived, the Picts suddenly grew very submissive. They retreated to their villages in short order and gifts of food and furs were left at the edge of Scanaga to placate the “magical” warrior, an act that embarrassed Nermesa when he heard of it.
The revelation of the brotherhood’s existence shook many Aquilonians to their very core. Most great Houses and most businesses had at least one Gunderman in their employ. Even the king found it hard to believe, for Gundermen had made up much of his support in the past.
“There are Gundermen everywhere,” the former adventurer muttered to his trusted followers. “Even in the palace. They’re part of Aquilonia’s army, by Crom! Am I to herd them all into Gunderland and seal the blasted place off?” King Conan shook his head. “I’ll not blame them all for what a few have done. If I were to do that, I’d have to exile everyone else in Aquilonia . . .”
Still, Nermesa did provide one method by which to track down others of Morannus’s ilk. The tattoo that he and his brethren wore on their necks became their downfall. Captain Dante and several of his men were arrested thus, their complicity in the Poitainian messenger’s death verified. Halrik, second-in-command at the outpost in Poitain, thrust a dagger through his heart rather than be captured. A sweep was made through Gunderland itself, with many a native turning in the villains before the Aquilonians—led by Konstantin—could even start. The Iron Tower was filled as it had not been in years.
Not by the least stretch of the imagination did anyone—the king, General Pallantides, Chancellor Publius, and even Nermesa—believe that all the members had been rooted out. However, now the throne was warned. No one would ever again take the presence of Gundermen for granted.
While all this went on, King Conan made certain that some semblance of normality remained. This enabled Nermesa to help Telaria with something that he had been dreading for some time.
Orena’s cold body had been discovered by her sister more than a week after the murder. The sight had been, needless to say, enough to send the younger sister into shock. Telaria had always sought to make peace with her elder sibling, her only close relative. Despite Orena’s horrific duplicity, the auburn-haired lady-in-waiting insisted that the baroness be given a proper burial, then placed in the family crypt. Nermesa admired his betrothed for doing so, doubting that he could have been so generous to one who had been so cruel to him.
The gathering was a small one, for other than Telaria, Nermesa and his parents, and a few loyal friends of both the former, there was only a representative of Queen Zenobia in attendance. However, the queen honored her servant, not the baroness.
When the ceremony was done, and Telaria and Nermesa were alone, she told him, “I am having the garden stripped down, made completely open, and removing that thing in the center. Then I’m going to seal up the Lenaro house and leave only caretakers to watch over it.”
“Why not tear it down?”
She shook her head, tears still streaming down her pale cheeks. “This is the home of my parents and grandparents. The home of my family. I can’t live here, but I still honor them. Orena will not make me dishonor their memories.”
“I understand. I’ll help you in any way possible, Telaria.”
“Thank you . . .”
And after the Lenaro house was dealt with, it finally looked as if the time had come when Nermesa and his beloved could at last put their own affairs in order. They talked of the plans for the wedding, a task that the knight found almost as daunting as facing the Picts or pursuing Wulfrim into Cimmeria. He was grateful when his mother took a hand in the situation again, the two women seeming to have a much better grasp of what the event should entail.
But just as things seemed to move on a smooth course, Nermesa was urgently summoned by General Pallantides. With a sinking feeling, the Black Dragon went to meet with his commander.
The veteran officer looked up from his work as Nermesa entered. Pallantides wore a stern expression. “About time, young Klandes.”
“Forgive me, General. I was seeing to the house . . .”
“The one formerly owned by Baron Sibelio?”
“Yes. Telaria will not live in her own, so I needed to see if the preparations I requested before my journey to Poitain had been completed.”
The graying soldier waved off any further explanation. “It’s good that you mentioned your last mission. That brings me to the reason I summoned you.”
A pit opened in Nermesa’s stomach. “You’ve another mission for me, sir?”
“One that only you are capable of finishing successfully. It is of the utmost secrecy.” The general rose. He was in full battle regalia, not a good sign to the knight. “Come! I expect the king already wonders where we are.”
“The king?” Nermesa anxiously followed. “Does this concern the brotherhood?”
“To a degree, yes. The brotherhood, the machinations of Baron Sibelio, and that Pictish witch, too.”
Bolontes’ son almost stopped dead in his tracks as he drank in the implications of what his commander had said. “They’re tied together?”
General Pallantides gave him a disapproving look. “The king will explain all, Klandes.�
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He led Nermesa through the palace to the throne room, where half a dozen dour Black Dragons stood guard at the great doors. They came to attention as Pallantides neared them.
“Are the king and the council gathered within?” the commander asked.
“Aye, general,” responded one. “They merely await you and Baron Klandes.”
As the guard said this, something stirred within Nermesa. A suspicion. “General Pallantides—”
The commander ignored him. “Announce us.”
The guard who had spoken turned and banged three times on the closest door. Nermesa heard a rumbling within. His heart sank, and he started to take a step back.
“To my side, Klandes.”
Nermesa had no choice but to obey.
The doors swung open . . . and as he had feared, it was not a tense meeting of the king’s advisors concerning some threat to the kingdom, but rather a ceremony in which he was the center of attention.
“General, I don’t—”
“Yes, you do. Every bit of it. Stand straight, Nermesa, and march toward the king. I’ll follow behind.”
As he followed the order, Nermesa noted that both his parents and Telaria were in the audience, at honored places near the front. The rest of the gathering included the most trusted of the nobles, merchants, and the military. Chancellor Publius, looking something like a plum in his purple finery, smiled at Nermesa as if they were the best of friends.
What seemed the entire Black Dragon contingent appeared gathered in the throne room. The elite warriors lined the walls. Each man held his sword high as Nermesa walked by, comrades honoring the hero among them.
As he neared Telaria, Nermesa saw that her face was flush with excitement. His mother, Callista, fought down tears of joy, and even stolid Bolontes appeared to have something in his eye.
One person he did not see but whom he expected would like to be here was Sir Prospero. However, Nermesa knew that the Poitainian was still active in helping Count Trocero make certain that the province was again under their complete control.
The banners of the golden lion hung high overhead, the largest of the silk tapestries above the thrones of the king and queen. King Conan was clad not in some robe of state, as Nermesa would have expected, but in the same armor that he had worn on the battlefield. His helmet rested in the crook of his arm, and on his lap rested his broadsword. His expression was unreadable, but the knight thought that he briefly caught a glint of pride, which only served to make the Aquilonian even more uncomfortable.
In contrast to King Conan, Queen Zenobia wore a luxurious, golden gown, which gave her a radiant look. She gazed at Nermesa with open gratitude. The knight felt his face flush.
At the foot of the dais, Nermesa went down on one knee. He was resigned to being honored and only prayed that the ceremony would not take too long. After all, he had everything he wanted already.
As Nermesa knelt, King Conan rose. Clutching his broadsword in one hand, he used the other to set his helmet on the throne. Utter silence filled the chamber.
“Nermesa Klandes,” the Cimmerian rumbled, “I think you’ve suffered through almost as many of these blasted ceremonies as I.” The king chuckled. “And I know you care for them no more than I do, so I’ll make this mercifully short . . . as I think you’ve been hoping.”
King Conan raised his sword as the Black Dragons had. He looked around at the audience. “Know all of you in this room that this man saved my life at near cost of his own! By Crom, there’s no greater favor to me than that! But he also again—aye, I say again—all but sacrificed himself for Aquilonia!”
To this, there were tremendous cheers. Conan let them run their course, all the while grinning down at Nermesa.
When the throne room was once more his, the king, suddenly solemn, pointed his sword directly at Nermesa. “Rise, Baron Nermesa Klandes, knight of the Black Dragons.”
The son of Bolontes obeyed.
“What I give you now is supposed to be a reward for your services,” Conan murmured. “but it may be that someday you will curse me for adding to the burdens on your shoulders.”
There was some muttering, especially from where Nermesa’s family stood. Nermesa glanced at General Pallantides, who remained stone-faced.
The tip of the sword touched Nermesa’s shoulder. The Cimmerian’s deep voice bellowed, “I anoint you Baron Nermesa Klandes, no longer of the Black Dragons—”
A gasp escaped the knight. “Y-your majest—”
The smoldering blue eyes silenced him. King Conan went on as if the man before him had not interrupted.
“—no longer of the Black Dragons, but now of a position all his own, answerable only to myself!”
Again, Nermesa managed a glance at Pallantides, who this time nodded. The corner of the general’s mouth was curled upward slightly.
King Conan snapped his fingers and Publius rushed up with a small ivory box. The chancellor opened it for the king, who reached in with his free hand and removed a chain from which hung a medallion shaped like a golden starburst. As the Cimmerian turned the chain about, Nermesa saw that upon the medallion’s face was a rearing lion over a sharp blade.
Conan sheathed his sword. He then leaned forward and placed the chain around Nermesa’s neck so that the medallion hung over the chest area of the breastplate.
The former mercenary and thief nodded, then eyed his other subjects. In the loudest, proudest voice yet, King Conan declared, “Henceforth, the man before you—the warrior before you—shall be known as Lord Marshal of Aquilonia, First Protector of the Kingdom, and, by Crom, ever as the Sword of the Lion!”
Again came the cheers. Nermesa stood there, stunned. He had some vague notion as to what such a role demanded, but to him, it was merely the continuation of what he had always desired . . . to protect his loved one . . . to protect all Aquilonia . . . with all the skills and might available to him.
And now, if Nermesa understood correctly, the king had given him access to nearly all that the realm had to offer in that regard. In some regards, his rank was even superior to that of Pallantides.
“All hail the Lord Marshal!” Publius called. “All hail Baron Nermesa Klandes!”
The crowd shouted Nermesa’s name. Conan stepped back, his action signaling the end of the ceremony. Wellwishers rushed Nermesa as the Black Dragons let out a roar in honor of their former comrade. Nermesa felt as if he shook a thousand hands.
Then Telaria all but leapt into his arms. She kissed him without regard to those surrounding them, then murmured, “I am proud . . . but not surprised . . .”
“Telaria—”
“Hush.” The lady-in-waiting kissed him again. “We will talk about this later. This is your hour . . .”
She vanished into the crowd again. Nermesa’s parents somehow made it through next. Callista hugged her son, her tears unchecked. Bolontes, not at all stern now, slapped Nermesa on the back several times.
“You know how we feel, my son,” he whispered close. “You know . . .”
“I do.”
They, too, retreated. Nermesa was accosted by noble after noble, each seemingly vying to shake his hand hardest. It was with some relief to the knight—for once—that Chancellor Publius pulled him from the throng.
“Lord Marshal! Lord Marshal! Come, come! The king would have a private word with you!”
Nermesa gratefully followed. Publius led him to a chamber just off the throne room. The doorway was guarded by two Black Dragons who saluted Nermesa almost as if he were king.
Not only was Conan waiting for him, but so was Pallantides. The Cimmerian nodded to Publius. “That’ll be all.”
“Surely, surely, my liege! I shall take care of the crowd until you return.”
The chancellor shut the door behind him. Only then did General Pallantides say, “Congratulations, Lord Marshal! Well done.”
“General—your majesty—this reward—”
The king grunted. “It’s no light thing, Nermesa. You
’ll earn it over and over, I’m sorry to say.”
“Have you changed your mind?” asked Pallantides. “Do you wish to retire from your duties?”
“Mitra! No!” Nermesa shook his head. “No . . . I accept the role.” His chest swelled. “And I shall not let you down, my liege!”
Conan only grunted again. The general, however, replied, “And we can only pray that you will not, Nermesa. The king did not do this only to reward you. He did it because he and I feel that someone of your caliber is needed, someone who can act alone or in concert with Aquilonia’s might. It is a role long needed to help safeguard the realm . . . especially, perhaps, now.”
“Now? Is there something amiss.”
King Conan chuckled. “Some might say that.”
A slight smile escaped Nermesa’s former commander. “No, but things might be becoming a bit more complicated in the near future, and there could be those who would seek to make use of those complications.” The general paused, then added, “In fact, the documents you brought to Trocero, whom the king trusts like a brother, actually carried within their contents—and in private code, naturally—the information you are about to learn.”
Nermesa grew more anxious. “What is it?”
His two companions exchanged a strange look, then Pallantides said in a low voice. “This does not go beyond the room until more is certain. Only ourselves and Publius will know of it . . .”
“Ha!” Conan grinned. “I think Zenobia might, too!”
“There is that.” The veteran officer leaned close. “It may be, Nermesa, that Aquilonia’s throne will soon have an heir.”
Eyes wide, Nermesa looked to King Conan, who grinned in that fashion that many an expectant father had over the centuries.
“Your majesty!” The new Lord Marshal bowed deep.
“It is not quite absolute yet,” continued Pallantides. “We will know soon, though, obviously. But you can see now why we especially need your loyal hand.”
Nermesa did. An heir to the throne would set in motion a new series of events. One of the things that had most threatened King Conan’s rule had been that the outsider had not yet fathered a successor. If that was no longer true, it meant monumental changes.
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