With Broderik’s aid, he was soon clad. Nermesa wore his full armor, certain that any visitor seeking him, even if it be a woman, had something other than pleasantry in mind. He wanted to take no chances.
Ordering Broderik to stay behind, Nermesa stepped out of the fort and into the dark, open space between the outpost and the town. At first, he did not see anyone, but then a shadowed figure to his left detached itself from the edge of the fort wall.
It was not only the woman that Broderik had mentioned, but the only one that Nermesa had met by name.
“Melia, isn’t it? Dario’s daughter?”
“Yes, Aquilonian. I am Melia.” She glanced around furtively, as if still afraid to be seen—but by whom?
“You wished to talk with me. Why?”
The woman thrust out a hand. “I was to personally give you this.”
It was a small bit of parchment. Nermesa quickly secreted it in his palm. “Who is this from?”
But Melia suddenly whirled about and rushed back toward Heinard. Nermesa thought of going after her but decided that he could always find her again if that proved necessary. What was important now was the contents of the parchment.
Returning to his quarters, Nermesa lit a lamp, then unfolded the message. It was written simply, if enigmatically, in a fine Aquilonian script that surprised him as much as the contents.
Under the eye of the castle. Make haste.
Nermesa started to crumple the parchment, then thought better of it. Instead, he went to Konstantin’s bed and slipped it under the sheet, where the garrison commander was certain to find it. Nermesa then returned outside, looking for Broderik.
“I need a horse. A sturdy one. Give me a few provisions, just in case I might be gone more than the night.”
“But, my lord, Sir Konstantin will—”
The Black Dragon cut him off. “Konstantin will understand. Tell him I said he should get some rest. Make sure of that.”
“Yes, my lord, but—”
“A horse, Broderik. Quickly!”
With admirable efficiency, the other knight soon had one ready for him. Nermesa thanked Broderik, then rode out of the fort. He would have liked to have asked the other Aquilonian if he understood what the
eye of the castle
meant, but hoped that the message writer had spoken of something fairly obvious. If not, Nermesa might then end up riding around the entire region north of Heinard, searching futilely for his rendezvous point.
It was possible that this was a trap set by Wulfrim and his cohorts, but for some reason, the knight doubted that. Wulfrim would have been better off lying low. No, this message was from someone else . . . but who?
Dario’s brother, Arumus? He was, after all, commander of the hilltop castle to which Nermesa now rode. Could he have found a need secretly to alert the Aquilonian?
Skirting Heinard, Nermesa soon entered the hills to the north. At first, the castle was obscured by the landscape, but at last he caught a glimpse of it . . . and immediately understood what the message writer had meant about an eye.
The castle was a broad, black shadow save for one lit opening high above. A tower with an oval window. The flame within made it look like the fiery eye of a demon and reminded Nermesa of his childhood fears of the twin windows of the Iron Tower back in Tarantia. They, too, had resembled eyes and had more than once set a young noble to trembling.
With the tower to guide him, Nermesa headed for the area in question. He still remained wary, for the message could be a trap after all. Perhaps it might have been prudent to bring a contingent of soldiers with him, but then if the person who had sent the message spotted them, he would probably flee before anyone noticed him. That would put an abrupt end to what might be Nermesa’s last chance to find Wulfrim.
Over hill after hill he rode. The castle grew larger and larger with each passing minute. Nermesa decided that if his mysterious rendezvous did not come to pass, then he would ride directly to the palace and speak with Dario’s brother. It was a slight hope, but maybe Arumus would know something that his brother the headman did not.
Nermesa noticed a change in altitude as he neared his destination. The air had grown chillier, and there were places where patches of snow appeared. He had been clever enough to wear a travel cloak—which helped against the cold—but still hoped that things would not get much worse. Tarantia was not an area much touched by harsh winters, and although Nermesa had traveled through snowy mountain ranges before, he still had a Tarantian’s preference for more moderate climes. Nonetheless, he pulled the cloak tighter around him and doggedly plunged on.
The hills became more tightly packed as he neared, forcing Nermesa to take paths that, at times, completely twisted away from the castle. At more than one point, the Aquilonian actually sighted Heinard ahead of him.
Yet, at last the castle loomed above him. Some distance ahead, a flickering light moved through the hills. Nermesa surmised that it had to be a patrol sent out by Arumus. The knight hoped that he would not run afoul of some of the local guards; they might not know of his presence in the region and think him a bandit or worse.
Nermesa reined his mount to a halt. He was not yet quite where he had to be for the meeting, which was just as the Aquilonian planned. Dismounting, he tied the reins to a cedar, then quietly crept on. Along the way, Nermesa drew his sword. He hoped to catch the message writer unawares and, if it was a trap, capture him quickly.
In the shadow of the hill, the snow proved thicker than ever, finally covering everything ahead. Nermesa had to move cautiously in order to avoid stumbling. In some places, the snow proved several inches deep and occasionally hid small crevices. Nermesa bit back more than one curse as he circled around. It was not even winter here. He could only imagine how the southern edge of Cimmeria—where the hills rose even higher—must be and thanked Mitra that his unknown contact had not chosen to meet him across the border.
The area ahead became more wooded, certainly an ideal spot for an ambusher to hide. Tightening his grip on the sword, Nermesa slipped around a pair of trees and peered ahead.
The snow at last worked in his favor, for he saw a lone figure flattened against the ground. Like Nermesa, the figure was clad in a vast travel cloak, but other than that detail, the knight could not make out anything. He only knew that there was no good reason for the hooded form to be hiding so.
Tensing, the knight took another step forward.
His foot sank into a tiny gap covered over by white powder. Nermesa stumbled and although he quickly recovered, it was not before a low gasp escaped his lips.
That
was enough to alert the figure ahead.
The stranger leapt up with a smooth swiftness that caught Nermesa by surprise. The trap that he had been about to spring suddenly became a battle for survival as the other swung a huge sword at him. Nermesa barely got his own blade up in time to block the first blow, then had to retreat quickly under an onslaught of masterful attacks.
He could make out nothing of the man’s face, but was certain that it was Wulfrim. If the Gunderman, then Nermesa had sorely underestimated the bodyguard’s skills. Wulfrim fought as well as, if not better than, many of Nermesa’s fellow Black Dragons . . . and possibly Nermesa, too.
He finally managed to rally when his foe’s sword caught against a tree trunk. Now it was Nermesa who revealed his skills. The startled grunt that escaped his opponent fueled the Aquilonian’s attack. Their swords clanged again and again, echoing in the empty land.
Then, the hooded figure’s boot slipped into a loose patch of snow. It sent him toppling. He tried to right himself but ended up on one knee before the knight. Even then, the pair traded several more strikes with no clear victor.
However, at last the upward struggle proved too much. Nermesa managed to get through the other’s defenses. He brought the tip of his blade to the throat.
“Stand still or I’ll—”
Somehow, his supposedly defeated foe managed to batter the sword away, then come up with his own, larger blade. Only sheer reflex kept Nermesa from losing his head.
But in attempting such a maneuver, the Aquilonian’s adversary overextended himself. He landed facedown in the snow, and when Nermesa pressed the sword’s point against the side of his neck, the figure released his weapon and spread his hands in surrender.
“Keep still or I’ll remove your head as easily as you would’ve mine, Wulfrim!” the Black Dragon snarled. “Be thankful that my duty to my king is stronger than my hatred, or I’d end this so with pleasure!”
There was a muffled sound from his captive, as if the latter wished to speak.
“Raise your head slowly, with your arms behind you,” Nermesa ordered. “And if you wish to speak, it’ll only be to answer my questions—”
He paused as his captive looked up, the hood sliding back some. It was not a Gunderman face, that was obvious even in the dim illumination of night. Nor was it an Aquilonian one as compared to Nermesa’s . . . and yet . . .
“Peace!” the fallen figure dared utter. “I am no foe! I am a friend!” He hesitated, leaning closer. “And I know that face even in this darkness—it is surely . . . Nermesa Klandes!”
That anyone in this land other than Konstantin would know him shocked Nermesa, but no more than his own sudden recognition of whom he had just battled. He shook his head, certain that his mind played tricks.
“Prospero?”
A wide grin spread over the second fighter’s face, a grin that Nermesa also recognized. Undaunted by the fact that his captor’s blade still hovered in the vicinity of his throat, the Poitainian rose. “Aye, Nermesa! It is I, Prospero!”
Despite his astonishment, Nermesa realized one thing immediately. “It was
you
who sent me the message!”
“Yes.” Prospero brushed snow off his garments. In contrast to his usual immaculate and glamorous state, the noble wore simple travel garments that, not coincidentally, were also well suited for blending in to such an environment. “Through the beauteous Melia, an acquaintance of mine.”
“Does she know who you are?”
“In a vague sort of way. Just enough to want to help but not enough to risk me should someone else discover that fact.”
Aware of Prospero’s reputation with women, it did not surprise Nermesa that his chosen contact would be one. “What about her father, Dario?”
“The headman? Absolutely not. That would be dangerous. The information might reach his brother!”
“Arumus?” Without meaning to, Nermesa glanced up in the general direction of the castle. Only now did it occur to him that the sounds of their struggle had likely been heard some distance away.
“Aye, Arumus! Unlike Dario, he is a part of this, as, it seems, many a Gunderman is.”
His declaration took Nermesa aback. “What do you mean?”
But instead of answering, Prospero quickly looked around. “We cannot talk here! Come, Nermesa! I’d prefer not to wait for company!”
“My horse is that way,” Bolontes’ son said, pointing southwest.
“Capital! Mine is not far from there! Let us be off!”
First they located Prospero’s steed—a brown charger—then returned to Nermesa’s. As the Black Dragon mounted, both men heard the clatter of hooves in the distance.
“Arumus’s men,” whispered the Poitainian. “Traitors all, I’ve discovered.”
“How did—” Nermesa began, but Prospero cut him off.
“When we are safe, my friend . . . something that we will not be until we ride a bit farther north.”
“North?” The thought of heading anywhere even remotely chillier than here did not sit well with Nermesa, but he did not argue.
His companion chuckled. “If you think this uncomfortable for you, recall well, my dear Tarantian, that I come from balmy Poitain, land of olive groves and hot-blooded lasses!” Another chuckle, then, “Although the women of this land have impressed me well, also.”
They spoke no more, intent now only on avoiding Arumus’s Gundermen. It still appalled Nermesa to know that so many of them were traitors. True, Gundermen often worked as mercenaries, but these men were acting against the throne itself. He could understand a few individuals such as Baron Sibelio’s man, Betavio, or Nermesa’s own quarry, Wulfrim, doing so, but surely someone offered much riches for a figure of authority such as Dario’s brother to turn his entire guard contingent to the sinister cause.
Prospero led him along a winding path that pulled them far from the castle and even farther from Heinard. Nermesa gradually understood why the Poitainian had suggested that they meet near a place controlled by traitors. Prospero’s hiding place would have been even more difficult to reach in a reasonable time. From Heinard, Nermesa would have had to almost ride east first before even beginning the trek north.
At one point, his guide suddenly brought the charger to a halt. Without a word, Prospero drew the huge sword he had used against Nermesa. It was not one of the fabled two-handed weapons for which Prospero’s order was known, but it certainly looked very capable of cleaving a head in two. The Aquilonian was happy that the battle between them had not concluded so before the discovery of one another’s identity.
A moment later, three riders appeared. With their heads uncovered and their cloaks much lighter than the ones worn by either of the knights, it was clear that they had to be Gundermen.
“We will wait,” Prospero whispered. “Hopefully, they will leave shortly.”
However, instead of leaving, the trio dismounted. To Nermesa, they looked prepared to stay at their present location for some time.
“Can we go around them?” he finally murmured to his companion.
“No.” The Poitainian’s tone grew determined. “Wait here.”
Before Nermesa could stop him, Prospero urged the charger forward.
Despite the landscape, the animal moved as surefootedly and as silently as a panther on the hunt. Nermesa wondered if the horse was from Poitain, so well did it obey Prospero.