He hoped that the guard would for some reason reject his words, but the man eyed the breastplate—which Morannus had made him polish again the night before—and studied the stern expression, and waved the party through.
As they entered the vast encampment, Morannus’s gaze narrowed. “They are making preparations for moving,” he muttered to Wulfrim and Nermesa. “Good. Nemedia must have begun its final march on schedule.”
“They will meet tomorrow morn, then?” asked the second Gunderman eagerly.
“They must. Tarascus will leave them no choice since he has none himself.”
The band rode in to the greetings of many of those around them, both their own countrymen and the rest. Nermesa seethed inside as Morannus accepted the greetings and returned his own as if he was their true comrade.
The leader of the brotherhood leaned toward Nermesa. “You are not waving. Wave. It will cheer their souls . . .”
Nermesa obeyed, feeling all the while as if he were about to stick a dagger into the back of every soldier there.
“Where is the king’s tent?”
The knight easily spotted it. “There. To the right.”
“Then let us make haste. The king must know that your good sword will be there at his side come the battle.”
Soldiers made a path for them as they wended their way to the great gray tent situated in the heart of the host. Many kings would have set up their tents far to the rear—assuming that they bothered to be anywhere near the struggle at all—but King Conan considered himself as only one more fighter. If his men were willing to die for him, he should be among them. Such notions put heart into his supporters.
They were nearly there when a towering figure stepped out and caught sight of them. It was not the king, but someone whose appearance raised Nermesa’s hopes for the first time in days.
General Pallantides.
The general took one look at Nermesa and his usually solemn expression momentarily cracked. The knight could read the tremendous relief that briefly covered Pallantides’ face before the commander of the Black Dragons caught himself.
Once more the veteran campaigner, he strode up to Bolontes’ son. “Klandes! We had feared you lost down in Poitain! Mitra watches over you.”
“I am glad to be here,” Nermesa replied woodenly. “I wish to see the king.”
“And certainly you shall.” General Pallantides looked over the Black Dragon’s companions. “All arms are welcome.”
Morannus bowed his head. “We would follow my Lord Nermesa anywhere, general, and hope that you will let us do so in battle.” He leaned forward. “Is it as I see? Will it be tomorrow?”
“Aye, that fool Tarascus has finally stopped dancing! Now he comes to meet the executioner!” Although he answered Morannus, Pallantides looked now at Nermesa. “Should have beheaded that bastard the last time. The king wants us on the move even before first light. If you wish to see him, it would probably be best to do so now.”
Nermesa nodded. “Thank you.”
“Shall we dismount, then?” suggested the lead Gunderman.
As Nermesa obeyed Morannus, the knight once more screamed within. So far, General Pallantides had noticed nothing amiss. Perhaps if the commander had not been distracted by the coming assault, he might have realized that Nermesa did not act quite right. As it was, once again the Black Dragon’s hopes were crushed. There remained but one more chance . . . that King Conan himself, wiser in the matters of evil, would recognize the truth.
Four of Nermesa’s unit stood guard at the entrance. They gave their comrade no more than a glance even though, like the general, they had probably thought him dead. However, now they were on duty, protecting his majesty, and nothing, absolutely nothing, was of more significance to them.
Which made it all the more maddening to Nermesa that they allowed him, who was to be the brotherhood’s vile tool, into the presence of their lord.
General Pallantides preceded them. As he stepped inside, the commander called, “Your majesty! I bring good tidings in the form of a visitor.”
The massive figure leaning over the wide oak table covered with maps turned. He was already clad for battle and in his black plate mail—over which had been set the silken surcoat upon whose breast was the golden lion—was an imposing image. Atop the table sat his plumed, visored helm, the crest of which was fashioned like a wyvern.
The brooding eyes fixed on Nermesa—while not missing Morannus—and King Conan uttered, “Nermesa Klandes! By Crom! This is a good sign, Pallantides!”
“So I thought, too, your majesty!”
As earlier instructed by the Gunderman, Nermesa went down on one knee before his liege. “My sword is at your command, my lord. I ask that I be able to ride with you when the host moves.”
The Cimmerian let out a grunt of approval. “How could I deny such a wish?” His gaze shifted to the knight’s companion. “And who is this?”
Morannus spoke for himself, as he had dictated to his puppet. “King Conan, I am Morannus, faithful friend of my Lord Nermesa here. He knows me as one who has served his betrothed during her youth.”
“I know the name,” Pallantides commented. “Telaria did mention it. You acted as buffer for her often when it came to her sister, your mistress.” The general’s brow furrowed. “Baroness Sibelio gave you permission to ride with Nermesa? I find that odd.”
Bowing his head, Morannus answered, “I have cut all ties with the baroness. She cannot protest my being here.”
Nermesa wanted to cringe at such foul words but could not. Instead, he continued to stay down on one knee.
The king took notice of this. “Rise up, Nermesa Klandes! I like no man of honor to stay so before me!”
“My Lord Nermesa will rise if you indeed mean your promise, King Conan,” explained the Gunderman. “So passionate is he about this. He told me so before we arrived.”
“If that’s the case, then I swear that you’ll be at my side come the battle, Nermesa! Now rise!”
Given the promise, the knight could now obey Morannus’s earlier command. Once up, he took a step back, setting himself right beside the Gunderman.
Conan looked around. “Where’s my squire?”
A sandy-haired youth leapt into the tent. “Your majesty?”
“Bring some wine—and food, I daresay. Hurry now!” As the squire raced off, the king gestured for the three men to sit near the table. In deference to his station, his servants had dragged along a high-backed chair for Conan. Nermesa and the others sat down on benches.
The king shoved aside the maps on the table. “Don’t know why I even bother with these things! I know this area as if I were born here, so many times have I had to fight or ride through it!”
“After tomorrow, there should never be reason for you to do either, your majesty,” interjected Morannus politely.
Oblivious to the Gunderman’s true meaning, Pallantides nodded. “Aye, tomorrow, Tarascus will learn the folly of not being grateful for having had his life spared the first time.”
But King Conan did not share his commander’s confidence. “It may not be as simple as all that! Crom! Tarascus is a fool, but usually not
that
big a fool! I’m still of a mind that he has some plan we don’t fathom!”
“Our scouts have made a thorough examination of his forces, your majesty. Tarascus has roughly three-quarters of what we’ve mustered, and many of them conscripts. Those’ll fight with less heart. I’ve also had reports from the north and the south. He has nothing else to throw against you.”
“Mayhaps, but not all weapons are visible ones.”
“No poisons will reach you, not surrounded by men so loyal to you.” The veteran officer pointed to the knight. “Men such as Nermesa here.”
The king again appraised Nermesa with his eyes. “By Ymir’s devilish daughter! It could that you are right, Pallantides!” He looked up as the squire returned with a tray laden with bread and salted meats. In the other hand, the struggling youth carried a jug of wine. “Perhaps I’ve just grown too damned comfortable! If I survive this, my next danger’ll be from getting too fat and lazy!”
“You, your majesty?” piped up Morannus. “It will never happen.”
“From your mouth to Crom’s uncaring ear, Gunderman. Well, Nermesa Klandes, why so silent?”
Nermesa had been silent because nothing said had triggered any of the commands that Morannus had given him. The Gunderman prevented any odd silence by offering to pour the wine for all, at the same time saying, “My Lord Nermesa is still digesting much of what happened to him since he left you last.”
This made King Conan frown. “An act I much regret! What would I have told his woman, Pallantides?”
The general purposely took a sip of wine, then changed the subject. “What did happen to you, Nermesa? This would be a good time to hear your report. It might have some relevance to our own situation.”
That triggered Nermesa again. “Yes, sir.”
He told them his story . . . as dictated by Morannus, naturally. In it, Nermesa rode all the way to Poitain without incident. The attack at the garrison prior to that was not mentioned, and by now Nermesa knew that Captain Dante had wanted to find out what was in the pack just in case it had to do with the brotherhood’s plot. He also realized that the garrison commander had been responsible for the disappearance of Count Trocero’s messenger.
Once in Poitain, the story changed again, with no mention of Wulfrim, only that he had chased a servant of Lord Eduarco north. Morannus clearly thought it best to mention the noble, as Count Trocero could have sent a message to the king at some point since.
King Conan and General Pallantides listened quietly, their bland expressions concealing the fact that both were probably analyzing every detail, however minor.
Nermesa made no mention of Sir Prospero, in part because Morannus himself had never learned the truth about the Poitainian hero. The Black Dragon would have liked to have said something, but he could only repeat matters as ordered.
The general was the first to respond to his tale, Pallantides tapping a finger on the table as he spoke. “A mad chase. A shame it all came to naught . . . and now that we’ve this trouble with Zingara flaring up, we cannot discuss the matter further with Trocero.” He paused. “Well, Prospero will be mourned.”
“He will be honored,” agreed Conan, “with the blood of a hundred Nemedians and Zingarans each, the former slain by me personally.” He grunted. “Then we shall deal with the Picts.”
There was that about King Conan that no one there gave any hint of doubt that he could make good on his promise to avenge his friend. The Cimmerian was fierce in battle.
Of course, that assumed he would live long enough to see the struggle. Nermesa wanted to reach out and strangle Morannus, who raised a mug, and said, “May tomorrow bring the victory we desire.”
The others took up their mugs. Nermesa drank all of his, wishing all the while that it was poison.
Setting down his mug, the Gunderman rose. That was Nermesa’s signal to do the same.
“With your permission, my lord,” the traitorous fighter said. “My men and I must find a place to set up.”
“I hope to have them ride with us tomorrow,” Nermesa added. “With your permission. They are very capable.”
“Granted.” As the two started to leave, King Conan suddenly called out to Nermesa. “The sword. You still have it?”
“He does, indeed,” the Gunderman quickly replied, smiling. “Only this morning, he spoke to me again of how much he hopes to be worthy of it and you.”
The king apparently took Nermesa’s silence for modesty. “You already have, Nermesa Klandes! By Crom, I wish I had a thousand like you.”
Then you would be treacherously slain a thousand times over,
thought the knight. He tried to do something—
anything
—to alert the two men to his plight, but could only bow per Morannus’s commands.
They stepped out of the tent and rejoined the other Gundermen, who had been patiently waiting all this time. As he mounted, Morannus muttered so that only Wulfrim and Nermesa could hear him, “All went well.”
Wulfrim nodded. His reaction was enough to alert the rest of the group.
In a louder voice, Morannus said, “Well, Master Nermesa! Where should we make camp? Someplace near his majesty, as you suggested?”
“Yes.” Nermesa pointed at a location. Both Morannus and Wulfrim studied it for a moment, then nodded to one another. The Gundermen moved quickly to secure the spot. They set up everything with practiced efficiency and even gained the assistance of a few soldiers from nearby.
The day began to fade. Morannus looked around, then whispered to the knight, “Walk with me.”
He led Nermesa to a copse of trees located just beyond the heart of the camp. Making certain that they could not be seen, the Gunderman commanded his puppet to draw his weapon.
After Nermesa had done so, Morannus made him perform a few maneuvers with the sword. Satisfied, he ordered Nermesa to stand in place again.
Rubbing his chin, the traitorous bodyguard walked once around the Black Dragon, inspecting him from all angles. Then, returning to where he had originally been standing, Morannus said, “Give me your blade.”
He took the proffered weapon, then tested it himself. The Gunderman did an excellent replay of most of Nermesa’s maneuvers, which surprised the latter. Morannus clearly had a natural aptitude for swordplay.
“A marvelous piece of craftsmanship, Master Nermesa. Do you want to know a secret? As with the sword I showed you in Tarantia, the artisan who made
this
was a Gunderman. Does that surprise you? Probably not. We are known for our dependability in whatever trade we choose, but especially those involving war.”
Morannus went through another series of moves. He was definitely as capable as most any Black Dragon.
“Yes . . . I think this would make a fine weapon for me.”
He raised the weapon, spun it around his head, then slashed at an invisible foe. All the while, Nermesa could only watch and seethe.