The layout of the hills demanded that he essentially follow the trail of the three back. Nermesa hoped that doing so would not lead him directly into their encampment or settlement, yet he had no choice. The potential risk forced him to be on edge at all times.
He rode for some distance, spotting nothing of significance other than a few ruts in the trail that looked to have been caused by the other horses. There was no sign of a campfire; nor did Nermesa smell smoke or hear any hint of other people. By now, it was nearly dawn, which would take from him the protection of darkness and make the last leg of the journey to Aquilonia possibly more dangerous. Nonetheless, he had no choice but to continue.
As the first hint of light touched the sky, Nermesa came across a small river. It was the first sizable body of water that he had seen in some time, and its presence made the Aquilonian certain that he was near the border. The landscape, too, seemed more reminiscent of home than a part of the dank, northern realm.
With some growing relief, he dismounted to drink. Around him, the land had a more green touch to it, a welcome change from the omnipresent dirt brown color covering the rest of the Border Kingdom. Ahead, the hills finally looked to be giving way to more level ground, which would only mean a better pace. Aquilonia had to be mere hours away—
The arrow buried itself deep in the moist riverbank, just inches shy of Nermesa’s neck.
Leaping to his feet, the knight barely avoided a second shot that flew out into the river. From the hills he had just left behind, a score of men, some on horseback and others on foot, charged toward him.
As Nermesa quickly mounted, one of those on foot—likely the advance scout—caught up to him. The Aquilonian kicked him in the face, then urged the horse forward. At first, the animal shied at crossing the river, but Nermesa saw no other choice and gave the command again.
The horse plunged into the churning waters. Nermesa’s memory flashed back to other rivers, such as out in the Westermarck. He prayed to Mitra for a safe crossing.
The river slowed those on foot, but the riders continued their pursuit. Two archers on the riverbank fired at Nermesa, one of the bolts bouncing off his armor.
Already, the water rose to the horse’s chest. The animal half swam, so strong was the current.
Splashing warned the Aquilonian of an approaching foe. Nermesa twisted in the saddle, deflecting an ax. A grimy face leered at him, two black eyes glaring at the knight from under a shaggy brow. The attacker was powerfully built, his body half again as wide as Nermesa’s and made of nothing but muscle. His second swing nearly broke Nermesa’s arm as the knight blocked it with his sword.
Other riders closed on the pair. Nermesa quickly glanced forward and saw that he was barely past the midpoint. Once across, the way was clear, but first the Black Dragon actually had to make it there.
The ax wielder tried to steer his mount around Nermesa in order to get a more open swing. However, the current worked against him and instead of closing on the Aquilonian, he and his horse ended up farther downriver.
The break gave Nermesa an opportunity to move on. The opposing riverbank beckoned him. He looked back and saw with some relief that one of the other fighters nearing him had fallen into the river. A second was struggling to control his mount in the treacherous waters.
But his first adversary was catching up again. On land, Nermesa felt certain that he could have outdueled the man, but in the river, the other’s ax and longer reach made for a tremendous advantage.
Nermesa’s mount shook as it fought for footing. The river began to grow more shallow. Nermesa rallied, aware that each step would be easier and easier for his steed.
He glanced back—and just in time caught a glimpse of the ax heading for his back.
Nermesa barely dodged the attack. The giant’s ugly face broke into a mocking grin, followed by a savage laugh. The ax came around again and although the Black Dragon parried it, the force of the blow all but knocked him off his horse. Nermesa clung on the other side, only his one-handed grip on the saddle and a foot in the stirrup keeping him from dropping to the ground.
His near tumble had one crucial benefit. Nermesa’s shifting weight caused his mount to veer off from that of his foe. A guttural curse escaped the ax wielder as Nermesa moved out of the weapon’s reach.
The next instant, the hooves of Nermesa’s steed touched dry ground.
The knight tried to pull himself up without losing his sword, but the angle worked against him. A sudden rise in the land ahead forced his mount to scramble.
Nermesa lost what remained of his grip. The Aquilonian tumbled onto the soft earth, his sword sliding away.
Fighting off his pain, Nermesa scrambled for the weapon. His horse slowed at the top of the rise, then came to a halt. Unfortunately, before Nermesa could return to the animal, his attacker’s steed cut between them.
“Got ya this time!” mocked the giant.
But although he had the disadvantage of height, Nermesa now had surer footing. More important, unhindered by being in the saddle, he was able to dodge around his foe.
This infuriated the rider. His swings grew wilder. “Hold still, damn you!”
Their weapons clanged. Nermesa ducked under a second strike, then thrust. The edge of his blade cut across the giant’s side, but only deep enough to make the other more furious.
Loud splashes erupted from the direction of the river. Some of the others pursuing Nermesa were closing the gap. The Aquilonian desperately sought for another opening in order to finish off his adversary immediately, but nothing offered itself.
Worse, the distraction caused by the knowledge that he would soon be outnumbered made Nermesa hesitate. That hesitation was enough for his eager foe. The giant let out a triumphant laugh as he brought down his ax . . . a laugh that transformed into a startled gurgle as an arrow transfixed him through the throat.
The ax dropped from his twitching fingers, the weapon just missing Nermesa. The startled knight backed away a step and watched as his opponent fell off the horse. The heavy corpse landed in a twisted heap at the edge of the water.
At the same time, a horn bellowed proudly. Those of Nermesa’s pursuers who had reached the other side abruptly fought to turn their mounts around, while several still in the water had already begun to retreat.
And at their heels came a display so welcome to Nermesa that he went down on one knee and nearly shed tears. Sleek horses carrying knights in gleaming armor pursued those who had been chasing the Black Dragon. They caught up to two of the riders and a very brief clash of arms broke out. However, the pair were no match for the numbers that surrounded them, and both quickly succumbed.
The banner of King Conan fluttered high and proud over the scene. Nermesa estimated some forty knights and mounted men-at-arms, more than enough to deal with such a ragtag group of cutthroats.
“Drive them back a mile or so!” shouted a mustached figure who had to be the officer in command. “But let most of them escape! I want that filth in Zarac to know that even now it’ll cost them to come into Aquilonia while Captain Menolaius is in charge of this outpost!”
Battle horn still blaring, most of the knights gave pursuit. About ten stayed behind to make certain that the vicinity had been cleared of any stragglers.
A man-at-arms mistook the bedraggled Nermesa for one of those stragglers. Paying no mind to the half-covered breastplate the Black Dragon wore, he charged the very man that his party had just rescued.
Despite not wishing to fight one of his own, Nermesa took up a battle stance.
But Captain Menolaius noticed the fight before it could begin. “Hold there, Justinio! That’s a knight of Aquilonia before you!” The officer gazed down his vulpine nose at Nermesa. “And, by Mitra, ’tis the mark of the king’s Black Dragons on his breastplate.”
The man-at-arms pulled up. With a hint of a stutter, he said to Nermesa, “My apologies, sir!”
Bolontes’ son waved off Justinio’s dismay, focusing instead on the captain. “I am Nermesa Klandes,” he offered. “servant of his majesty King Conan! Tell me—have I at last reached Aquilonia again and—and does the king still live?”
“The king still lives, aye,” Menolaius uttered, but there was no pleasure in his tone at a fact that made Nermesa’s heart leap with relief. “And, yes, this is Aquilonia . . . at least, it is for the time being . . .”
“What do you mean?” Nermesa asked, completely puzzled by the answer.
Menolaius grimly eyed the Black Dragon. “Because while the king moves to fight Nemedia to the east, Zingara has risen up against Poitain from the southwest, and there is rumor that the Picts have stirred near Scanaga!” When Nermesa gaped at this astounding news, the captain nodded in order to reaffirm everything. “All terribly true. That is why I say that this is Aquilonia for the time being, because if we cannot stand against this incursion that seems to come from nearly all sides . . . I fear it will soon be the
end
of our realm!”
15
“HOW LONG?” ASKED Nermesa as he rode back with the others to their outpost. “How long since the situation with Zingara and the Picts developed? I knew of Nemedia and glad I am that the king is still alive to deal with that, but of the other two, I know nothing!”
Menolaius gave him a sympathetic expression. “Small wonder, if half your story is true, my lord. Of Zingara, I received a message only this morning. It apparently began with accusations concerning not one but two missing agents of his majesty, the foremost being Sir Prospero of Poitain.”
“And, I fear that I am the other. Go on.”
“Accusations flew both ways, then suddenly Zingara moved. Some say that Argos may also be testing the waters to the east of them, though I hope and pray to Mitra that such is only a fanciful story.”
Nermesa prayed the same. “And the Picts?”
Here, the captain let out a harsh laugh. He pointed at the Black Dragon. “Their shamans say that the Lion Spirit is no more. From what I gather, that has something to do with
you
, who I know is considered by them as half-supernatural.” To Nermesa’s embarrassed expression, he added, “The tales of your exploits out there have reached even this remote place. Some of my men served out there when you saved the territories from being overrun.”
“I did very little,” Bolontes’ son insisted. “Others died doing the same.”
“And so are heroes made . . . and this is a time when we need heroes, surely, my lord.”
Nermesa grunted. “We have one. We have the king.” But perhaps not long, for the plot to assassinate Conan still lived on, with Nermesa now unable to follow Wulfrim to the Gunderman’s masters. There remained only one thing that the Black Dragon could considering doing at this point. “And I must go to him.”
“To the east? Near Nemedia?”
“Assuming that I can reach him in time, yes. Can you assist me?”
Menolaius looked startled. “How could I do otherwise? It will take a day, but I will send you and a proper escort on. You can judge in the meantime whether to first ride to Tarantia or head straight toward Nemedia.”
“I thank you.”
“Nay. I
thank
you. May Mitra guide you well. If I could, I’d send all my men with you, but the Border Kingdom has been active of late, especially in Zarac. There has been another change in rule—if anyone but those swine could
call
it rule—and the new villain, Loth, tests not only those in the surrounding territories but our land as well.”
So, it was as Nermesa feared. He wondered whether the activity had anything to do with his present quest. Calamity in the north would only add to the burdens in the other directions.
“Give me but four men to travel with me, Captain. I would take no more away. All borders of Aquilonia must be well protected.”
He received no argument from Captain Menolaius, which spoke volumes to Nermesa as to how dire the entire situation had become. It seemed unimaginable that Aquilonia could be so under siege and, in some cases, from lands most unlikely. Nermesa had believed that the trade pact King Conan had created between Aquilonia and the surrounding realms would finally put an end to such conflicts; but against all logic, Nemedia and Zingara in particular were willing to risk their own stability in their lust for conquest.
No, not against all logic. They had to be certain that the Cimmerian-born monarch was about to die. Should that happen, the trade pact—all agreements—would be as so much dust in the wind. The king still had no heir, and without one, those of Nermesa’s caste—the old nobility—would squabble away their own homeland before being willing to agree to a new ruler.
Which surely had to be exactly what the master plotters hoped. Someone had enough prestige, enough favors, to fend off the anarchy and take hold of the throne long enough for Nemedia to back him.
Someone whom Nermesa still had to unmask.
Menolaius’s outpost was situated in a town called Tamaros—or “Child of Tamar”—and had clearly been named after the capital in some bygone generation. Tamaros was a good-sized town, with inns and taverns and places of gambling. However, despite all of these places still being active, there was a tense mood, a feeling that one was spending the last moments of pleasure one had in life. At least, that was what Nermesa sensed in those inhabitants and visitors he passed as he and his companions returned to the fort.
Once at the outpost, the captain offered Nermesa his quarters—which the Black Dragon reluctantly took—then saw to it that his guest received all necessities requested. Nermesa bathed, re-dressed in full armor as was his habit, then partook of a meal with Menolaius that, compared to what he had been fed by Haral—who had, admittedly, given
all
that his people could afford to give—bordered on a feast. There was fresh wheat bread, good beef, and a sweet, Aquilonian wine.