With a curse, Aurelo charged the rider. He beat back the Gunderman’s attack, then ran the latter through the leg. Clutching his wound, the attacker pulled back to let others deal with the knight.
Sword drawn, Nermesa finally managed to severe the line. He and the sole other Aquilonian still mounted turned to help Aurelo and the fourth man. Nermesa hoped that he could at least pull Aurelo to safety while the other knight aided the stunned man on the ground.
Aurelo fended off two riders, then tried to seize the horse belonging to his dead rescuer. However, one of the Gundermen waved off the animal before the knight could seize the reins. Then both closed again on their prey.
Nermesa used their focus to his advantage, charging one of the attackers from his side. The Gunderman gave the Black Dragon a startled look, then perished at the end of Nermesa’s blade.
“Aurelo!” Nermesa cried. “To me!”
Keeping his gaze on the remaining Gunderman, the other knight backed toward Nermesa. The way was treacherous, but Aurelo tried his best to keep moving.
He was not swift enough. More of the Gundermen fell upon the pair, cutting off Nermesa from his companion. A grinning rider drove his blade through Aurelo while Nermesa could only look on.
They swarmed around the Black Dragon, harassing him with their weapons but not doing any actual harm. As Nermesa turned, seeking some escape, he saw one of the remaining knights fall, then the second as well.
Certain now that they would finish him, Nermesa shouted, “Come at me, then! To death I will go, but I will not do so alone, I swear it!”
One of the Gundermen eagerly charged him . . . only to end up with a sword through his back.
The hooded figure who had slain the rider wiped his blade off on the slumping corpse. As he rode slowly into the circle, he growled, “And that for anyone who forgets themselves! We want
this
one alive . . .”
He pushed back his hood enough for Nermesa to finally see his face . . . the very face that the knight, upon hearing that voice, had feared to see.
Wulfrim
.
Nermesa tried to lunge at the figure, but several of Wulfrim’s companions shielded him from harm with their weapons. The Aquilonian finally ceased his futile attempt.
Another of his captors seized Nermesa’s sword. He tossed it to Wulfrim, who sheathed his own weapon.
The man who had led the Black Dragon on an epic chase up the length of Aquilonia made a slicing gesture with Nermesa’s sword. Two of those behind Nermesa grabbed the knight by the arms while a third removed his hood and helmet. The Black Dragon struggled to pull free, certain that his weapon would now be used to sever his head from his neck.
But that was apparently not to be. Instead, the lead Gunderman stuck the shining sword through his belt. He then looked at those behind the prisoner.
“Bori smiles upon us!” said the leader. “I came here, desperate to seek another answer to our problem, and then you appear alive and whole! What could I do but not let such a gift escape us again?”
The knight struggled, but, again, to no avail.
“Gently now,” mocked Wulfrim. “He’s important to us.”
A heavy hand holding a moist cloth closed over Nermesa’s nostrils and mouth. The Aquilonian tried not to inhale, but eventually
had
to do so. Immediately, a dull sensation filled his head . . . and a moment later the world turned as black as Wulfrim’s heart.
16
NERMESA LAY IN a dreamless sleep. Yet, perhaps “sleep” was not the perfect word for his condition, for he vaguely sensed that he drifted in darkness long beyond any normal slumber. The knight also sensed that there were others around him, others who spoke low and in tones that hinted of sinister intentions.
Once, Nermesa almost stirred to waking, but something was pressed against his mouth and nose, and soon he returned to the smothering discomfort of the darkness.
At last, though, he began to hear distinct voices. Sensation slowly returned to his body. He could not move, but now the Black Dragon understood that his limbs were bound and that at present a gag prevented him from even moaning out loud. His eyes were also covered, preventing the captive Aquilonian from discovering just where he was.
One voice briefly became intelligible. “Move him there,” it commanded. “And carefully. He must be in fit condition.”
Someone else spoke.
“Yes, the sword, too,” replied the first voice. “It will be most appropriate and symbolic.”
After that, the voice faded into the background, and Nermesa again drifted off. This time, however, he sensed that it was not for very long. As the knight gradually drifted toward consciousness again, he felt his backside pressing against something cold. Stone, perhaps. When Nermesa tried to move his arms, the knight heard the clink of metal and discovered that his limbs were now restricted in a different manner. His arms and legs were stretched out at angles from one another. He felt manacles on his wrists and fetters on his ankles.
For a long time, there was no sound save his breathing and the occasional chitter of rats from varying places around him. Then the slow clatter of footsteps sent the rats scurrying and, minutes later, the cloth around Nermesa’s eyes was torn away.
A bright light momentarily seared his eyes. Nermesa let out a gasp and turned his head to the side.
The light receded slightly. A rough hand seized the Aquilonian’s jaw and forced him to look up again.
Wulfrim’s mocking countenance filled his gaze. The Gunderman pulled his hand back and moved his fingers, watching the prisoner’s reactions.
“Nothing wrong with your sight. Good. We want to keep those eyes as sharp as your sword.”
“Damn—” Nermesa managed to croak. His defiance ended in a long cough, the result of not having had any liquid for more than a day.
“Give him some water,” suggested another voice . . . and one that sounded vaguely familiar to the knight.
Nermesa tried to see what the other looked like, but the face was hidden behind the glare of the oil lamp in the second figure’s hand. All he could tell with any certainty was that it was another Gunderman.
Wulfrim acknowledged his companion’s suggestion with a nod, then brought up a water sack to Nermesa’s lips. Despite wanting to spit in his adversary’s eye, the Aquilonian had no choice but to drink all that Wulfrim offered. It refreshed the knight somewhat, enabling him at last to focus a bit more on his surroundings.
Only then did he discover that he was in a crypt. Vaults lined both walls flanking him. Worse, it slowly registered on Nermesa that he was chained to the top of a marble sarcophagus displayed in the center of the dank chamber.
“Don’t bother with those chains,” Wulfrim growled. “They’re new and won’t break.”
“What do you want with me?”
“What we wanted from Sir Prospero. What you can do for us better than even he could have.”
As the Gunderman talked, Nermesa for the first time noticed that there was a tiny tattoo on his neck near the back. If not for the way Wulfrim’s hair presently hung, it would have been completely obscured.
His captor saw where he was staring. “The Brotherhood of Bori. Know it. It is your master.”
“Spare the melodramatics,” his comrade uttered. “They are wasted on him.”
“You think he’s special. He’s just another Aquilonian pig.”
“Who kept you on the run quite well.”
Wulfrim turned his glare on the other Gunderman. “I was fulfilling my part of this . . . the most important part of this.”
“No,” admonished the other, thrusting the lamp toward Nermesa and nearly blinding him again. “
He
has the most important part in this.”
Nermesa shook his chains despite the fact that he knew that, as the Gundermen had claimed, they would not break. “I will do
nothing
for you! Nothing!”
With a chuckle, Wulfrim withdrew the water sack, then melted into the darkness. The faceless Gunderman remained a moment more, adding as he left, “Yes, you will do
everything
for us . . . and then the waiting will be at an end at last.”
He backed away, his face still hidden from the captive knight. The Gundermen’s footsteps faded away. Once more, Nermesa was left alone in darkness.
Unable to free himself, he tried to focus his thoughts on what he knew. He was in Aquilonia, of that Nermesa was certain, and from what he had seen of the crypt, it had the look of one belonging to a single family of some wealth. The chamber had not been huge, and the markings that he recalled on the various plates had all had the same symbol, a creature of some sort. It had been difficult to tell much more with only the single lamp to illuminate things.
Nermesa tried to recall what towns or cities were near enough for such an estate to exist. Unfortunately, he could imagine only one location.
The Gundermen had taken him back to Tarantia.
That revelation made Nermesa bitter. He was farther away from King Conan, at least three days back. Now, the knight was certain that there was no hope of reaching his lord in time to save the Cimmerian’s life.
But what did they want of Nermesa, then? Information still, certainly. Essential information, too, from the manner in which both men had talked.
Nermesa suddenly took some heart from that. If it was so important, it surely had to do with King Conan, who could not yet be dead, then. That meant that there
was
a chance to salvage victory from defeat . . . if Nermesa could suffer through whatever tortures his captors had in mind.
Bound there, in the dark, he lost track of time again. His mind constantly searched for some way by which to escape, but unless the Gundermen undid his chains, Nermesa could think of none.
Footsteps again alerted him well in advance of someone’s coming, not that the knowledge did the Black Dragon any good. The knight watched as light slowly filtered into the crypt. This time, though, it was Wulfrim alone. The Gunderman held the lamp in one hand, while in the other he carried what appeared to be a tray of food.
Without a word, Wulfrim set the lamp on another sarcophagus. He then brought the tray over to the prisoner.
“Lift your head,” the Gunderman commanded. “Unless you want to choke.”
“Your masters wouldn’t like that,” retorted Nermesa.
Wulfrim glowered. “I have no masters . . .” He tore a piece from a loaf of bread. “Now eat.”
Aware that he had to keep his strength up, the Aquilonian obeyed as best he could. Wulfrim stuffed his mouth anew with food the moment after Nermesa swallowed. In addition to the bread, there was a tepid broth with vegetables, and more water.
The water soon presented Nermesa with another difficulty. Pulling back his head from another mouthful of bread, he informed Wulfrim of his situation.
The Gunderman grunted. “Should let you just suffer here.” He mused on it a moment, then, added, “All right. I’ll be back soon.”
The northerner left the lamp behind. Nermesa watched him vanish out of the crypt. Shortly after, he heard Wulfrim calling to someone else.
Wulfrim returned with two other Gundermen, both of whom had their swords out. From his belt, Wulfrim procured the keys to the chains.
“Don’t think that we can’t beat you up a little, dog,” he warned the Aquilonian. “You do what you have to, then go quietly back to your chains, understand?”
Nermesa nodded. The lead Gunderman unlocked his legs first, then his arms. It took the knight a moment to undo the kinks in his limbs. His muscles screamed at first, then gradually proved malleable enough.
With two swords pointed at his torso, Nermesa stood. To his surprise, Wulfrim did not send him to a corner of the crypt, but instead led the prisoner out into the corridor.
“Turn left at the corner. Here. This chamber has a sewage grate.”
The empty, stone chamber had no windows, no other exits. The sewage grate that Wulfrim had mentioned was too small to escape through, yet, as he bent down, the knight secretly tested the iron bars across it.
And as he had hoped, one of those bars came loose.
Nermesa went into a coughing fit. At the same time, he tugged the bar free.
“What’s the matter with you?” growled Wulfrim. “Finish in there now!”
Standing, the Black Dragon secreted the bar in his palm and along the length of his forearm. He kept the back of his hand to his guards as he approached. If the light had been better, they might have noticed his ploy, but the shadows worked in Nermesa’s favor . . . for the moment.
One of the other Gundermen reached for Nermesa as he neared.
With one smooth movement, the knight slipped the bar farther down in his grip, turning it into a club, which he then brought up against the guard’s unprotected head.
There was a savage crack, and the Gunderman fell. Nermesa immediately barreled into the other guard, who was still startled by the sudden attack.
“Grab him, damn you!” shouted Wulfrim from behind them. He tried to draw his own weapon, only to become pinned against the wall by the two lunging bodies.
Nermesa shoved the bar into the other guard’s stomach, driving the air out. He then punched the man hard in the jaw, sending him crashing to the ground.
Wulfrim struggled to draw his sword. However, he had it only halfway out before Nermesa, seizing the fallen guard’s blade, held his captor at bay.
“Remove that weapon very slowly and you might live,” he warned Wulfrim.
Eyes blazing, the Gunderman obeyed. Nermesa took the sword from him and set it far away.
“Now,” he went on, “you are going to lead me out of here, and the first mistake you make, I’ll run you through and take my chances on my own.”
“You will never leave here,” warned the Gunderman. “Not until
we
let you.”
“We shall see about that. Now be silent!”
Nermesa would have liked to question Wulfrim about the plot, but did not want their voices to attract any attention. What was most important was to find a way out of this place and discover exactly where in the capital he was. Ironically, he could not be all that far from the palace, for that was where most of the older, more prominent families kept their ancestral homes. Very likely, Nermesa even knew to some extent the traitor. It would not be the first time that supposed friends proved to be duplicitous. Such seemed an inherent part of his caste, the so-called nobility.