The Silent Enemy (6 page)

“Kidnapped?”

“Aye . . . and if someone would dare instead kidnap one such as him rather than make certain that he was dead and of no threat, then, mark me on this, Nermesa Klandes, they have something most
sinister
in mind.” The Poitainian quietly swore, adding, “Most sinister, indeed.”

4

“NERMESA KLANDES, IT is good to see you.”

Count Trocero had ruled the province of Poitain for as long as Nermesa could recall, yet, other than the man’s gray but still-flowing hair and a few wrinkles under the eye, the noble looked as fit as the young warriors surrounding him. Under the silken surcoat bearing the scarlet leopard, the count wore laced, golden armor. He had clearly been out most of the night himself in search of those who had stolen away his general and most trusted man.

“It is good to see you again, too, my lord,” Nermesa returned somberly as he handed the noble the now seemingly not-so-important pouch and its contents. “Though the conditions are not what I thought they would be.”

Count Trocero tucked the pouch in the crook of his arm. Under a bushy brow, penetrating green eyes bored into the Black Dragon’s. “Is it really true that the word I sent of this vile deed had not yet reached Tarantia by the time you left? To be certain, I sent it by both bird and messenger and the former surely should have covered the distance in but two or three days! The rider would have crossed paths with you at the very least!”

“I saw no one with the look of Poitain upon him, but, then, I wasn’t expecting to see such a man.”

“Still . . . he should have stopped at one of the garrisons . . . but they said nothing?”

Nermesa could only shake his head in frustration equal to that of Count Trocero.

They stood in the main hall of the noble’s castle, a sprawling, stone edifice that had clearly been built up over generations. It had three crowned towers, the largest in the center and stretched almost as wide as the king’s palace. Atop each tower and above the battlements hung the majestic leopard banner. There were windows on the upper levels, many of them with double shutters. The outer set were normal, arched shutters designed to keep the wind out; the second, inner ones had the type of slits in the middle that archers would find perfect for firing out of during a siege.

Count Trocero’s nephew had initially led Nermesa through an iron gateway that was the centerpiece of a high, sturdy, stone wall with battlements. Watch stations on each of the four corners further added to the castle’s security. The returning party and their find had ridden over a wooden gate that crossed the span of a moat whose depth the Aquilonian did not even want to imagine.

Considering the peaceful nature of much of the landscape through which he had ridden, Count Trocero’s castle seemed an aberration, but it had been begun during the height of Poitain’s most violent period, when Zingara had, in the space of thirty years, sought to overrun its northern neighbor at least five times. True, under its present ruler the province had experienced a fairly tranquil existence, but Trocero obviously maintained all his home’s defenses in much the same way that the mountain towers and fortresses did theirs. The Poitainian count was no fool; times always changed, and someday—perhaps even now, it seemed—his realm might come under siege again.

“I’ve just returned from searching up north again,” the count remarked as he led Nermesa and his nephew into a vast sitting room. A fireplace massive enough for the three of them to stand inside stood on the far end of the room and over the vast, oak mantel, the family coat of arms hung. A long, polished wooden table stretched much of the distance from the fireplace to the entrance, and Trocero gestured for Nermesa to sit in one of the high-backed, cushioned chairs near it. Gregorio took a seat across from the Aquilonian, and the count sat at the head.

“What has my nephew told you?” Trocero asked the moment he was seated. A servant appeared in the doorway at the same time, and the Poitainian noble nodded his way. The servant immediately withdrew.

“Only that Sir Prospero was attacked somewhere near the mountains and that he was first thought dead, but now it’s more likely that he was kidnapped.” Nermesa hesitated, then added, “The others who were with him were brutally slain, though they gave a good account of themselves.”

“So we assume, at least,” the count said with a eye toward Gregorio. “There were signs enough of blood that did not seem to belong to ours. We could be more sure if there’d been bodies. You know of that?”

Gregorio straightened. “I told him, uncle.”

At that moment, the servant returned. The liveried figure brought with him a tray upon which were three silver chalices and a decanter of a pale wine. Trocero sat silently and patiently as the young man poured wine, then set the goblets before the count and his companions.

The lord of Poitain took a sip before continuing. “Did you stop anywhere along the way while in our land, Nermesa?”

“In the mountains, I stayed at the castle of Sir Octavio. He said nothing, but I thought I noted something amiss in his manner when I first arrived there.”

“Octavio’s a cousin and a trusted man.”

Nermesa nodded understanding. He had thought by Octavio’s name that the other noble might be related to Trocero. In Poitain, many of the male aristocracy had the same ending to their names, hence Gregorio’s and Lorenzo’s also sounding similar. It was an ancient custom still strong in the province, especially among those belonging to some extent to the ruling House.

“He no doubt thought at first, as my nephew did, that you came in swift response to my missive to the king, and when you revealed ignorance, decided it best to leave the matter to my discretion.” Trocero let out a grunt. “Or my nephew’s, it seems.”

“My apologies, Uncle—”

“Never mind. You did right, I think.”

Something that had been bothering Nermesa since first he had heard the terrible news finally came to the forefront. “My lord, why would the brigands steal away their dead? Why would they wish to hide their identities from you?”

Count Trocero slammed down his chalice so hard that the stylized leopard molded onto the neck seemed to leap as if alive. “Because they do not wish us to know that Zingara is once more attempting evil! Who else would strike at one of Poitain’s finest but those who fear him most?” He leaned forward, his dark brown eyes furious. “Prospero is a champion among champions, as even King Conan would attest! A brash and somewhat exuberant soul, some would say, but as loyal a man and as good a sword as any you’d find elsewhere. It is no small thing that he commands the province’s host.”

Considering the reputation of Poitain’s knights, no small thing at all
, Bolontes’ son thought. “Have there been incursions by the Zingarans of late?”

“A few ruffians found thieving around the border, nothing more. But don’t think that such little activity means that the devils aren’t up to something. Those in power would like to distract from their own problems by offering up Poitain as a wealthy prize to their discontented subjects. It wouldn’t be the first time it’s happened, and it won’t be the last.”

That made sense to Nermesa, but Prospero’s kidnapping did not, unless . . . “Sir Prospero is your right-hand man.”

“When he’s not busy being that of the king,” Trocero remarked with momentary humor.

“Then he knows not only much concerning Poitain’s defenses and capabilities, but also that of Aquilonia as a whole.”

His statement was not met with surprise. The count nodded, adding grimly, “So I thought also. If the Zingarans do not want some of this information for themselves, then they might be willing to sell it to someone in exchange for aid in taking my beloved Poitain.”

Nemedia and Argos came to mind, although the latter, being neighbor to Zingara, was just as likely to desire Poitain as much.

“They’ll try to tear the information from his tongue,” the Aquilonian blurted. “They’ll stop at nothing for it.”

“Prospero will never give in to torture!” Gregorio insisted, slamming his fist on the table and nearly upsetting his chalice. “He can withstand
anything
the knaves attempt!”

Count Trocero calmed him down, then said to Nermesa, “My nephew, as many do, sets Sir Prospero on a high pedestal . . . and with good reason, I say. Still, while he may steel himself against most known methods, there are some that no man can deny. I speak of the dark arts. It would not be unheard of for Zingara to turn to a renegade Kothian or even a Stygian practitioner to deal with Prospero.” Trocero’s gaze grew veiled. “By Mitra, I fear for him if that’s the case.”

“Let’s hope it’s not.”

“The truth must be found, Nermesa; the sooner the better.”

The Black Dragon stood. While he still wanted to return to the capital—and Telaria—as soon as possible, Nermesa could not ignore such a situation. “I offer my aid, my lord, until such time as King Conan sends others more suited.”

“And welcome it is,” returned the count. “I know you and your reputation. Prospero himself spoke of your deeds out in the Westermarck with open admiration, and the plot you uncovered concerning the Baron Sibelio is talked about even among the people here.”

Gregorio stiffened. Eyes widening, he blurted, “That was you?”

“Yes, nephew, it was he.” To Nermesa, Trocero reached out a hand. The grip was as strong as that of any young soldier. “I accept your help. I’ll send new word to Tarantia . . . and, by Mitra, this time I’ll see that it reaches King Conan if I have to send a hundred birds and messengers!”

 
THE CHAMBERS GIVEN to Nermesa were as luxurious as those in his childhood home, but the Aquilonian scarcely noticed them. All that mattered was the bed—where he promptly fell asleep—then the coming of dawn. Before the sun was scarcely above the horizon, Nermesa was dressed and ready to begin the search.

Count Trocero insisted on a good breakfast first, the better to maintain their strength during the arduous day ahead, then set about dividing his men up. Nermesa wasted no time in requesting that he be shown where Sir Prospero’s trail had ended. The count approved, sending Gregorio and a dozen knights with Nermesa for good measure.

As for Trocero, he had his own destination in mind. “I’ve the thought to search a rocky ravine near the border with Argos. It means being gone for three, maybe four days, but you’ll need that time yourself to reach and survey the area where Prospero was taken.”

“You have some clue concerning the ravine, my lord?”

“No, simply a possible hunch. It came to me as I woke that there are caves aplenty there, certainly large enough ones for hiding a prisoner while he’s being tortured.”

No one said what was in the thoughts of all. They might locate where the assailants had taken their captive, only to find that Prospero had then either been slain or been taken to Zingara. What would happen then was anyone’s guess, although Nermesa suspected that neither Count Trocero nor the king would allow something so flimsy as a border to keep them from mounting a rescue or, failing that, seeing justice done.

Gregorio led the party northward. Lush groves of olive trees—their green, swollen fruit ever so inviting—gave way to fields, then open plain. They made camp out in the open that night, then continued on as soon as daylight came. Count Trocero’s nephew explained along the way how Prospero himself had been in search of possible infiltration by Zingarans and the like and that his last report had come from an outpost near the Serenti Pass, the region where the missing knight’s cousin oversaw one of the huge mountain towers.

“We first became aware of something amiss when the tower sent a bird with a note wondering at Sir Prospero’s absence,” Gregorio went on. “Uncle had men immediately go and investigate . . . and you know the rest.”

Near the end of the next day, they reached an Aquilonian station. While the Poitainians considered themselves quite capable of defending their province, Tarantia politics dictated that King Conan have a sizable force loyal to Aquilonia present. While Count Trocero considered his monarch a sword-brother, many in the north still recalled the stories from generations past when Poitainian knights had been the enemy. The locals took such garrisons with some slight amusement, positive that even the well-respected Gunderman pikemen who made up the majority of the Aquilonian contingents here would not long stand against their armored host if a confrontation, however unlikely, took place.

The commander of the outpost, Captain Elarius, was a ruddy-faced Bossonian with thinning blond hair. His second was a Gunderman named Halrik, who, after only a few minutes’ conversation, was, by Nermesa’s estimate, the true man in charge.

“Aye, we searched up and down and all around,” Elarius rumbled. His armor strained at the laces, a sign that he had been enjoying the climes of Poitain more than he should have. There was also the hint of ale on his breath. “Very thorough we were, sir,” he said to Nermesa. The garrison commander glanced over his shoulder at his second. “That’s so, isn’t it, Halrik?”

The brown-haired Gunderman nodded. His eyes flashed apology concerning his superior’s state to Nermesa and Sir Gregorio as he replied, “Aye, Captain. Very, very thorough.”

Nermesa questioned Elarius for a few minutes more, but was glad when the captain placed their needs in the hands of Halrik. The Gunderman watched his commanding officer depart, then muttered, “He does his duty as needs be, my lord. I’d not trade him for another here.”

The Black Dragon nodded. “But you undertook full control of the search, didn’t you?”

“Aye. I generally do in such matters.”

“And you found nothing out of the ordinary that might give us a clue as to Sir Prospero’s disappearance?”

The Gunderman shook his head, his ponytail swinging back and forth. “We searched hard. All know of Sir Prospero, his deeds, and his importance to King Conan. I recall him myself as the man who slew wicked Amalrus, King of Ophir, some years back. It is no lie to say that he is the only man who may be closer to the king than even General Pallantides or Count Trocero.”