Over the course of the meal, Bolontes’ son described his entire ordeal, especially that taking place in Gunderland. He even spoke of Sir Prospero’s sudden appearance and the Poitainian’s almost certain doom in the southernmost wastes of Cimmeria.
“An ironic twist of an end,” commented Menolaius on the last. “To follow so loyally a man born of that land, only to die for him in it.”
“And I must see that he did not die for nothing . . . assuming that was indeed the case. I still pray that he escaped them.”
The captain nodded agreement, adding, “I’ll do as you ask, my lord, and send Sir Konstantin a sealed missive with news of your escape and what is occurring in Gunderland. I know the fiery-haired man myself, and he’ll see to it that those villains, at least, are brought to justice.”
“Would that Wulfrim was among them.” Nermesa cursed his own failures. “By now, he must be in Tarantia . . . or east.”
“Have you decided then to ride toward Nemedia or will you make your way to the capital?”
“It must be Nemedia, Menolaius. I beg you to send another missive in the name of General Pallantides or, better yet, Queen Zenobia herself since the general might be with the king.”
The garrison commander considered. “King Conan might decide that he would prefer Pallantides to guard his queen and the palace, should the worst befall him.”
“You’re correct. Send it to both. One must surely reach the proper eyes.”
“It’ll be done.” Menolaius surveyed Nermesa’s plate. “You appear finished with food and drink. If you have nothing else you need of me, I’d suggest you might retire early.”
The Black Dragon shook his head. “I fear I’m too wound up just yet, my friend. I should very much like to step out into Tamaros for a short time. I feel the need to savor a piece of Aquilonia after so long.”
“As you like. In light of all that’s going on, I’ve set a curfew for two hours after sunset.”
“A wise choice.” As Nermesa rose, something came to mind. “Tell me, Menolaius, are there a fair number of Gundermen in your garrison?”
“A small number and men whose loyalty I would swear for.”
That was what Nermesa had hoped to hear. “And in Tamaros?”
Menolaius shrugged. “Every part of Aquilonia has some Gundermen. They’re
Gundermen
, after all. Almost as much Aquilonian as you or I.”
So Nermesa had once believed. Now, however, he suspected otherwise. “It might be wise just to keep an eye on them.”
“As you suggest.”
Bidding the captain good-bye, the Black Dragon procured his horse, then rode out of the fort. Even before he reached the first buildings of Tamaros, he felt as if he were home. The similar architecture—on a much more provincial scale, of course—clothing, and familiar manner of speech calmed him. He never entirely relaxed—as a member of the king’s elite he was always somewhat on his guard—but some of the tension of the past several days faded. His resolve strengthened once more. He
would
succeed in his mission.
Nermesa stopped at a tavern, not only savoring the normalcy of it but also secretly listening in on the conversations around him in order to gauge the mood of the locals. After about an hour, though, the knight had heard enough. While the people seemingly went about their lives, the tension around him was as thick as honey. Most of those there clearly thought that King Conan could defeat Nemedia, but the added threats of Zingara and the Picts had even them anxious. There was only so much any one man could do, even the almost mythic Cimmerian.
It was nearly dark when he returned to his steed. Nermesa wanted to be asleep soon, the better to be fresh in the morning for the long, harrowing ride ahead. He would need his full wits about him when—
The Aquilonian paused in midthought, his gaze momentarily catching a familiar figure slipping into one of the other taverns. The presence of the other so startled the Black Dragon that, for a moment, he just stood there, unable to believe what he had seen.
Wulfrim.
Quickly securing his mount again, Nermesa strode after the briefly glimpsed figure. While it was not out of the question for Wulfrim to be in Tamaros, the odds seemed greatly against it. True, Tamaros was one northern gateway to both Tarantia and the eastern front, but surely Nermesa had been mistaken . . .
And yet, the knight’s pace doubled. If, by even the remotest stretch of the imagination, he had somehow caught up to his quarry, Nermesa dared not let him escape.
Entering the tavern, Nermesa located the loose-haired Gunderman he had been following to his far right. The figure, now speaking to one of the servingwomen, still had his back to the knight, and there was no chance of identifying him as Wulfrim without the Black Dragon stepping right up.
That was just what Nermesa did. He tapped on the Gunderman’s shoulder, his other hand remaining near his sword.
But the face that turned toward Nermesa was not the one for which he had been searching. The strange Gunderman eyed him up and down, noting briefly the breastplate, than politely asked, “Is there something you wish?”
It was all the Aquilonian could do to hide his disappointment. “No . . . no . . . I mistook you for another. My sincerest apologies.”
The Gunderman shrugged and returned to his conversation. Nermesa left the tavern, scowling at his own overzealousness. Up close, he could not imagine how he had ever mistaken one man for the other. This second Gunderman had a wider face and more deep-set eyes than Wulfrim. The only similarities were the loose hair and the cloak.
It was clear to Nermesa that he had not grown as relaxed as he had imagined. That his senses would play such tricks was a sure sign that his mission was weighing on him. The sooner he reached King Conan, the better not only for the safety of his liege but also for his own peace of mind.
Menolaius greeted him on his return. “How fared your excursion? Tamaros is not Tarantia, but it has its entertainments and distractions.”
“It is a fair enough place,” Bolontes’ son remarked carefully. “But I fear that it’s time for bed. I must leave as soon as possible in the morning.”
“Then I’ll see to it that you’re not disturbed.”
Taking no chances, Nermesa slept that night clad and with his sword within reach. He noted when the captain finally entered to go to his own bed, but, other than that, the night went as Menolaius had promised. Nermesa did not sleep deep, but at least he was able to sleep.
Well before dawn, Nermesa was already up and preparing for the journey. From his garrison, Menolaius chose four men to ride with his guest. “Fine fighters, all of them,” he promised. “They will obey your orders to the letter and without the slightest hesitation.”
Nermesa inspected them and found the four without fault. The senior knight of the group was a young but earnest fighter named Aurelo who, it turned out, was Poitainian on his mother’s side. Upon hearing of Nermesa’s mission, he had immediately volunteered to be a member of the party.
Leaving Aurelo to see to keeping order among the others, Nermesa focused solely on his quest. He thanked Menolaius for his time and efforts, only to have the captain thank him in turn.
“You are working to save all Aquilonia, my lord,” the garrison commander pointed out. “If I’ve had any small part in assisting you with that, it was an honor, not a duty.”
With the first hint of light, Nermesa’s band rode off. From Captain Menolaius, he had procured good maps. In addition, Aurelo was very familiar with the first part of the trek. With such to favor him, Nermesa and his escort made good time that day.
They camped in a lightly wooded area. Nermesa pulled Aurelo aside and discussed with him what lay ahead.
“The map shows two paths by which to head toward Nemedia. This one seems straight, but I think that we need to ride a bit farther southeast. Do you know this other road?”
“Aye, my lord, and I would suggest it over the first. After we pass through the town of Miran, there is another garrison a day and a half later. As one of its forks also leads directly south to Tarantia, it is a place where one can often get news far fresher than in Tamaros. We might then learn better where the king and his army are maneuvering.”
Nermesa nodded. It seemed odd that the latest information that Menolaius had been able to pass on had indicated that King Tarascus had not yet marched to meet his archenemy. Tarascus appeared to be playing a waiting game, and the knight could only guess that the Nemedian despot still assumed that King Conan would be removed from the picture.
Of course, since the last missive, that might have all changed.
Nermesa made up his mind. “The second route, then . . . and let us pray that when we reach the garrison you mentioned, that the dance between the armies of Aquilonia and Nemedia continues. If not, if they have met, then I fear for our realm.”
A slight drizzle awoke them in the morning, but it was nothing to Nermesa compared to the chill winds of southern Cimmeria. The weather did little to slow the party, which reached the outskirts of Miran shortly after nightfall. Aurelo swore that he knew a trusted inn where they could get good food, learn any news, and find sleep. With the weather suddenly worsening, Nermesa acquiesced, leaving the other knight to deal with the details.
In short order, they settled in. Aurelo proved accurate in his assessment of everything, save the news, which proved to be no more recent than what they had heard in Tamaros.
“The garrison will know more,” Aurelo promised. “You will see, my lord.”
“How far from Miran did you say they are?”
“Just a day and a half, if the weather is clear, a full two days, if it isn’t.”
Much to Nermesa’s frustration, the latter proved to be the case. The storm began pounding Miran midway through the night and continued on at daybreak. Despite that, though, no one suggested waiting it out. Even if it took them the full two days, Nermesa
had
to reach the fort.
With cloaks wrapped tight about them, the five began the daunting journey. Their situation was not helped by the fact that the heavy rain had quickly reduced the road to mud. It came to the point where Nermesa was forced to order his band off the path entirely, instead riding along the edge of the woods.
They met few other travelers on the way, and most of those rode past at as best a clip that they could manage in order to reach Miran and get out of the storm. Nermesa was tempted to call a halt but decided that doing so would only prolong their troubles.
When more than two hours had passed without seeing any further traffic, Nermesa called to Aurelo, “Are we still on the right track? Did we turn off somewhere because of the storm?”
“This is the correct way, my lord,” the other knight replied, wiping moisture from his brow. “I would venture to say that we might still make it in a day and a half.”
It was better progress than Nermesa would have guessed. Nodding, he lowered his gaze again, the better to keep the rain from his own eyes.
“Milord,” called one of the other men. “Ahead of us.”
Nermesa glanced up to see a band of riders, perhaps eight in all, converging on their location. The pace set by the newcomers was slow and constant and, despite the cloaks covering them, they had the look of professional fighters.
And as they drew nearer, he saw that they rode under a banner.
“The storm makes it difficult to tell,” shouted Aurelo, “but I think I make out the banners of the king and with it, that of the garrison! It must be a patrol headed for Miran!”
Thanking Mitra for this stroke of luck, Nermesa urged his mount back toward the muddy road. The patrol picked up its own pace, the hooded riders spreading out at the same time.
And as they did, Nermesa noticed for the first time that the foremost ones were Gundermen.
“Pull up!” he shouted to his companions. “Turn about and get as far away from the road as possible!”
Aurelo looked at him in utter confusion. “But why?”
Nermesa did not bother to explain. However, as he turned his mount around, it was to see that there were other riders coming up from the rear . . . and they, too, were Gundermen.
Someone whistled sharply. As one, the Gundermen flung back their cloaks and drew their weapons.
Quickly surveying the scene, Nermesa pointed to the south. “That way! It gives us a better chance to escape them!”
Although his companions were still befuddled by the necessity of fleeing those who should have been comrades, they obeyed the Black Dragon without further question. As he turned off to the south, Nermesa cursed. Somehow, the conspirators had known that he would be heading this way, and it seemed that they had endless ranks of hired Gundermen to do their foul work.
Their pursuers melded into one vast line as they followed the escaping knights into the southern woods. Despite the incessant rain, the Gundermen rode as if most of them were well familiar with the area. Nermesa did not like that. Had he planned an ambush, he, too, would have familiarized himself with the surrounding landscape . . . and planned for any chase that might ensue.
Nermesa swore. No matter
which
direction the quarry might flee.
He opened his mouth to give warning to the others . . . and barely saw the narrow line stretched across several of the trees at a height where it would come across most riders’ chest. Nermesa ducked, feeling the line graze his shoulder.
The second that he knew that he was safe, Nermesa twisted around to warn the others . . . but for some it was too late. Aurelo went flying from the saddle even as Nermesa turned, the younger knight striking the ground with a terrible thud. Another knight started to duck, but, unlike Nermesa, he did not get low enough. The line caught the top of his helm, throwing the hapless fighter off his horse.
One of the remaining pair paused to help Aurelo to his feet. Unfortunately, the first of the Gundermen came up behind him. Aurelo let out a warning, but before his comrade could react, a blade through the neck ended his life.