Wulfrim grudgingly guided him along the featureless, empty corridor. Nermesa saw no guards and assumed that the two that he had taken had to be the only ones on duty. Why not, since the prisoner had been securely shackled? That raised his hopes of making his escape.
They came to an intersection. Nermesa eyed the three directions that the pair could go. Wulfrim made no move toward any one of them, and the Aquilonian suspected that his captive was plotting something.
“Choose the correct path,” the knight whispered in the Gunderman’s ear. “The least hint of trouble, and I kill you.”
Wulfrim merely nodded and his stony expression concerned Nermesa. He shifted the tip of the blade to the side of the other fighter’s neck, near the jugular.
“Choose the correct path,” the Black Dragon repeated.
After another brief hesitation, Wulfrim indicated the left turn. Nermesa eyed the other directions, saw nothing that hinted that they were better choices, then reluctantly urged the Gunderman to the left.
As they moved on, Nermesa recalled the last time he had been in a similar predicament. Then, it had been at the country estate of Baron Sibelio. Once more, he wondered if Wulfrim’s masters had been a part of that conspiracy. It made some sense; much of the groundwork would have already been in place.
Wulfrim appeared to have taken Nermesa’s warning to heart, for the two still had not come across any guards. It was not until they neared a stone stairway that the knight heard the cough up ahead. Thrusting Wulfrim against the wall and keeping the sword’s point on his neck, the Aquilonian glanced toward the steps.
The lone guard had the look of another Gunderman. He had clearly been on duty for some time, for there were hints of laxness in his stance. He had begun to lean back against the wall and spent much of his time staring at the floor. Yet the man still held his sword ready, should something happen.
Turning to Wulfrim, Nermesa murmured, “Call him . . . carefully.”
Glaring at the knight, the captive obeyed. “Joronian! I need you to give us a hand!”
There was a scraping sound as would be made by the boots of someone coming to attention. They were followed by rapid footsteps.
“Coming, Wulfrim!” Joronian called.
Nermesa estimated the time before the other Gundermen would reach them. He did not move, but kept the blade pressed against his captive.
The guard turned the corner . . . and at sight of Nermesa, raised his weapon.
“Lower it!” Nermesa demanded in a low voice. “Lower it, or I run him through!”
He had counted on Wulfrim’s being of some importance and, to his hidden relief, that proved to be the case. The guard dropped his arm.
“Put the sword on the floor and step back from it.”
The Gunderman bent down to obey.
Wulfrim let out a growl and swung one hand up at Nermesa’s blade. The impetuous act stunned the knight for only a second, but it was enough to save Wulfrim’s life. The blade scarred the Gunderman’s neck, even drew blood, but did not hit the jugular.
As Wulfrim acted, the guard started to rise. Nermesa, expecting this, turned his aborted attack against his first foe into a sweeping swing toward the second.
Where he had failed with Wulfrim, the Aquilonian succeeded with the guard. His blade cut an arc across both the man’s face and throat. The guard let out a cry and collapsed.
But in the meantime, Wulfrim made good his escape, fleeing past Nermesa in the direction of the steps. He was already up the first one by the time the Black Dragon started after him.
Nermesa had no choice but to follow. He raced to the steps, leaping up two at a time in the hope of cutting the gap. Yet Wulfrim was fresh, whereas Nermesa still suffered lingering effects from being bound for much of the past few days. The Gunderman reached the top well before the knight, then vanished from view.
And as Nermesa finished climbing, he heard Wulfrim call out.
Cursing, the Aquilonian paused at the top to see where best he might go. He now stood in a corridor of the sort used by servants in most of the major estates. Such corridors were generally located on a sublevel just below the main floor and thus kept the servants out of view of their masters when they were not wanted. There was a similar arrangement in the Klandes house, although Bolontes Klandes did not set himself so high above his servants as many of the aristocracy did.
But before Nermesa himself could choose which way to turn, Wulfrim decided for the Aquilonian. The escaped Gunderman was followed by three of his countrymen, all armed with long, wicked blades. While Nermesa was fairly certain that they still wanted him alive, he would not put it past Wulfrim to mete out a little punishment for the humiliation the knight had caused him.
Turning in the opposite direction, Nermesa rushed down the oddly empty hall. While it was possible that some of the servants might be above, tending to their duties, it was strange that not
one
was in the area . . . unless, of course, there was no one here now save Wulfrim’s pack. The fewer untrustworthy eyes and ears, the better for the plotters.
Ignoring the shut doors to each side of him, Nermesa hurried toward another stairway at the end of the corridor. This, surely, would lead him up to the main level and better his chances of escape. If he could flee the house itself, he was safe. They would not dare pursue him beyond it, not if he also raised much noise in the process. While Nermesa wished that he could stand and fight, he knew that the better part of valor was to escape and warn the palace. Then, with other Black Dragons, he could return to finish the task.
As he ran up the steps, Nermesa glanced back. To his relief, Wulfrim and the others had fallen well behind. Nermesa did not question his good fortune but did thank Mitra for it.
A thick, wooden door greeted him at the top of the steps. At first, the Aquilonian feared that it would prove locked, thus the reason for the slowness of his pursuers. However, when he tried the handle, Nermesa happily found the door able to be opened. He burst through, ready for any sudden attack. When none came, the knight immediately turned around and slammed the door shut behind him. Unfortunately, there was no manner by which to bolt or lock it.
Taking a breath, Nermesa abandoned the door and took his first glance at his new surroundings.
Surroundings that he
recognized
.
“No . . .” he whispered, how exactly he recognized those surroundings immediately coming to him. “No—”
“Good evening, my lord,” announced a voice from behind him.
Nermesa turned to find another Gunderman coming up toward him. He barely had time to register
which
Gunderman it was before Wulfrim and the others came crashing through the door. The knight immediately backed away in preparation for a last stand, but then more guards—more Gundermen—materialized from every nearby corridor.
“Please drop that,” the first figure said patiently. The voice was the same one he had heard earlier in the crypt. “They’ll seize it from you no matter how many you might bring down first. They know what is at stake, my lord. Do they not, Wulfrim?”
“Yes.”
“Now, then,” continued the other Gunderman. “Do as I said, Master Nermesa.”
The Black Dragon threw his sword down in disgust. He glared at the speaker, who quietly and calmly went and picked up the stolen weapon. The Gunderman studied it with a master’s eye, testing it in a variety of maneuvers.
“Hardly as good as your own,” he finally commented to Nermesa. “But, then, there are few swords finer than that which you received as reward for your loyalty to the Cimmerian. Fewer swords, indeed. How well I remember the first time I saw it.”
The Gunderman smiled. Nermesa silently cursed that smile, for, until this day, he had thought it that of a most trusted friend.
“It
is
good to see you again, Master Nermesa,” Morannus declared mockingly. “And you have no idea just
how
good . . .”
17
“WHAT IS GOING on, Morannus?”
Every man there turned to an elegant, spiral staircase situated to Nermesa’s far right, where an arresting, female figure now descended. The woman was clad in a shimmering silver dress that wrapped around her body like a lover and yet was the height of Tarantian elegance. The bodice was just low enough to be proper and still tantalize, a perfect accompaniment to its wearer. Her blond hair was bound up behind her head. Her face was the epitome of Aquilonian beauty, but somehow still as cold as if carved from marble. Her emerald eyes gazed at Nermesa in particular, her full lips pursing.
Baroness Orena Sibelio.
Nermesa had recognized her ancestral home—the Lenaro house—from the many visits that he had made as her former betrothed. To discover himself within these walls had been like plunging into the worst of nightmares. Now, worse, he also faced the mistress of the House herself.
“Merely a little sport, my lady,” replied Morannus. “Nothing to concern yourself about.”
“He should not be up here!” Orena hissed, the regal mask cracking suddenly. “He should be down in the crypt, like all things dead to me!”
For as long as he had known her, Telaria’s elder sister had seemed to Nermesa an icy goddess—tall, beautiful, blond, and with eyes that could command the attention of nearly every man save the one whom she was supposed to marry. For Orena, that had been a continual slap in the face and reason enough for her to hate Nermesa.
But there had been more, so much more, starting with his eventual breaking of their betrothal, rescuing Telaria from her brutality, and, finally, revealing to all that the man she had later married—Baron Antonus Sibelio—had been a traitor seeking the throne.
Nermesa had defended her afterward, assuring the king and General Pallantides—more for the sake of Telaria than anything else—that Orena had been ignorant of her husband’s devilish ambitions. Now, however, he saw clearly that he had been absolutely wrong.
“I was about to bring him up from the crypt, anyway, mistress,” Morannus continued calmly. He spoke not like a servant, but more as an
equal
. “The time draws nigh. His disgrace is imminent.”
“Is it?” The smile that spread across her aristocratic features was ghastly to behold, at least to Nermesa. He suddenly sensed that Orena’s hatred of him had become much more, that she leaned very close to
madness
. “Good! I want to see it! I want to savor it!”
“As you rightly should and as you shall.” Morannus made a low bow to his mistress that the other Gundermen, save Wulfrim, imitated immediately.
Orena’s gaze turned to the lone Gunderman, who quickly executed a belated bow. The baroness smiled graciously again.
Morannus cleared his throat. “In fact, it will take place very shortly. You may wish to make yourself ready, mistress.”
“Excellent! I will not be long.” With a nod, Orena turned and walked back up the staircase.
The bodyguard waited until she had vanished from view, then returned his attention to the prisoner. “It was meant to be Sir Prospero, Master Nermesa, but the fates have decreed that you will be the hand that finally sees the deed done. For that, I will personally honor you.”
“Morannus, are you blind? Don’t you see that your mistress is insane? Would you have her on the throne?”
“I let her believe what she desires to believe.” He signaled the men holding Nermesa. “Bring him.”
As they dragged the Aquilonian forward, Nermesa pondered the bodyguard’s words. Again, he did not sound like some loyal servant. Rather, Morannus seemed merely to be
playing up
to Orena. The Gunderman had other intentions in mind.
“So . . .” the knight growled. “Is there another who pays you so well, or are you mad, too, that you think Aquilonia would accept
you
as its king?”
Several of the Gundermen laughed at his remarks, and Morannus himself shook his head in pity. “You understand nothing, my lord, not that you should. It’ll become clear in time . . . when it is too late to change anything.”
Nermesa had assumed that they would take him back to the crypt, but instead they dragged him down the hall toward the rear of the vast house. He frowned, trying to recall what was back there. Merely decorative rooms and, beyond them, a terrace leading to an immense garden . . . a miniature woods, in fact. Nermesa had not been in the garden for years, even long before he had come to understand that his marriage to Orena could never be. Despite the trees and flowers, the garden had still somehow been like her, cold and foreboding.
Just before they reached the terrace, Morannus called a pause. Glancing at Wulfrim, he ordered, “Something to cover his mouth.”
Nodding, the other Gunderman hurried off, only to return a minute later with a long, wide piece of cloth. This he bound across a struggling Nermesa’s mouth.
“That’ll do,” Morannus said.
They brought him outside and for the first time, Nermesa saw that it was evening. He also saw that the garden was even more vast than he recalled . . . more vast and far more sinister.
And very likely their destination.
The Black Dragon struggled again. Wulfrim brought his blade to Nermesa’s throat, copying what the Aquilonian had earlier done to him.
“Don’t let animosity make you foolish, Wulfrim,” admonished Morannus. To Nermesa, he said, “Consider yourself fortunate that we do this out here and not in the crypt, as I suggested first to the baroness. She insisted, though, and since she is still of value—and I find the irony amusing—we will go to the shrine and do the deed there.”
Shrine?
Nermesa’s brow furrowed in concern. Did they plan to sacrifice him in the name of Orena? Were all his captors insane?
Beyond the walls of Orena’s Tarantian estate, Nermesa could still hear the sounds of the capital’s inhabitants blithely going about their lives without knowledge of what was taking place here. The knight suddenly tried to shout, yet not only did the cloth effectively gag his cry, but Wulfrim used his rebellion as an excuse to slap the Black Dragon hard in the face.