Morannus’s own men were nearly upon
the Aquilonian
. In his eagerness to take the lead Gunderman, Nermesa had lost track of his own pursuers.
The brotherhood fanned out, cutting off any easy return to the battle. The army moved on, intent only on what lay ahead of it. There was no one around to pay any attention to the much smaller but still-significant struggle about to take place. Nermesa was on his own.
But that only made him more determined than ever to confront Morannus. If the Aquilonian was to die, it would be fulfilling his duty. Nermesa bent low as he met the lead Gunderman’s charge. Their swords struck with such ferocity that sparks flew.
“I am disappointed in you, Master Nermesa,” Morannus mocked between swings. “To fall so foolishly into a trap!”
“My life is a small thing to lose if it means that you won’t leave here, either, Morannus!”
The ponytailed fighter laughed. “A pity you won’t have that to comfort you as your body grows cold and lifeless . . .”
Again, they traded blows. Nermesa tried to thrust over and under Morannus’s guard, but the Gunderman was a quick study. He countered both attacks. However, he did not press the Black Dragon in turn, and Nermesa knew why. With each passing second, Morannus’s cohorts drew closer. Surrounded, the knight would be an easy target for their many blades.
Morannus let his weapon drop just a hair too low. Seizing the opening, Nermesa slashed at his adversary. The Gunderman reacted, but not swiftly enough. He saved his chest from being sliced open but received a long gash in the arm.
Letting out a grunt of pain, Morannus, no longer smiling, snarled, “Savor that,
Master
Nermesa! It will be all you will have to take with you to the grave!”
The clatter of hooves echoed in the Aquilonian’s ears. Another Gunderman came up on his left. Nermesa deflected that blade, then quickly parried an attack by Morannus—
One of the other Gundermen shouted. The rider on Nermesa’s left hesitated in midswing, his gaze shifting to behind Morannus.
As if summoned out of thin air, a contingent of knights came charging down on the villains and Nermesa. Visors down and swords ready, they barreled into the Gundermen, sending the brotherhood into confusion and turmoil. There were at least twice as many of Nermesa’s rescuers as Morannus’s men.
And among them was a figure wielding a two-handed sword with which he easily cleaved one Gunderman’s shoulder in two.
“Prospero!” Nermesa called.
“Nermesa! A grand meeting this!” jested the Poitainian. “We saw a lone knight being attacked by these bastards, and I knew that they had to be part of the same foul group as in Gunderland—watch out there!”
Prospero’s warning came none too soon. In his joy to see the other knight, Nermesa had grown distracted. Morannus, recovering from his own shock, had lunged at his foe.
The Aquilonian twisted in the saddle, but could not completely avoid the Gunderman’s blade. It did not pierce the throat, as Morannus had obviously hoped, but sliced across Nermesa’s right cheek. The wound stung terribly, and Nermesa felt warm blood flowing down to his chin.
He beat back Morannus’s sword. Sweat covered the Gunderman’s face as he tried to fend off the storm of blows Nermesa now threw at him. The knight was fueled by hope and by anger. So many had perished because of the man before him.
Morannus made a desperate lunge. Not only did it fail, but it finally presented Nermesa with a wide-open target.
He thrust, catching his adversary just below the ribs.
The Gunderman gasped. His sword slipped from his trembling fingers. He clutched at the wide wound, the blood quickly washing over his hand. Morannus gazed down at the gap, a mortal strike if ever there was one.
His eyes looked up into Nermesa’s again . . . and Morannus laughed.
“L-long enough . . .” he rasped. “You still f-fail in the end, Master N—”
The Gunderman dropped from the saddle, tumbling to the ground in a ragtag heap that left no question as to whether he still lived.
Barely had Morannus fallen than Prospero battled his way to Nermesa. Despite having faced several foes already, the Poitainian looked fresh. He grinned as he approached.
“Well fought, Nermesa! By Mitra, these villains are undone! They did not ask for any quarter, and we were not willing to give them any!”
“Prospero—how do you come to be here? I thought you dead!”
“As I, you! When you vanished, I fought like a man possessed, for there remained only me to reveal this conspiracy! I fought off two of my attackers, then dove down the other side of one hill into deep snow. They gave chase, but thought me dead. It took three days to reach Heinard unseen, where I spoke with your friend, Konstantin . . . who mourned your death as much as I.
“With my word as evidence, he spoke with Dario, who proved true despite his brother’s treachery. We laid siege to the castle and finally routed the miscreants. Arumus perished, but from one of his men I learned the truth about what was going on, that this Brotherhood of Bori desired an independent Gunderland at the cost of Aquilonia’s complete destruction! Mitra! What madmen!”
Nermesa nodded agreement. “So you headed to Tarantia?”
“Yes, after sending word to Trocero about everything! I daresay that he has the situation in hand there, Zingarans or no Zingarans, but once Tarascus is put down like the dog he is, I’ve no doubt that Conan shall come to Poitain’s aid, just to be certain!”
“But how did you end up here at the head of a force of your own?”
“Konstantin granted me what knights and men-at-arms he could sacrifice. I rode to Tarantia to warn Queen Zenobia, then immediately set out for where the army was said to be, with additional men she turned over to me. She was most insistent on my reaching here as soon as possible, not that I needed any prodding.” For the first time, Prospero looked a bit grim. “When we heard the sounds of battle, even from so great a distance, I feared that I was too late. Then, I saw this band of villains, recognized them as Gundermen, and called for the charge. But never did I think it was you that they harried until we were very close.”
“I’m grateful, believe me.”
“Tell me, Nermesa . . . by your demeanor and actions . . . the king
does
live,
does
he not?”
“He almost died by my hand, but, yes, I left him living.” In response to the Poitainian’s startled expression, the Black Dragon added, “You don’t know. Then, there’s much I’ll need to fill in, but that can wait until later.”
Prospero, looking more relieved again, nodded. “Yes, there’s a battle to be won, still, now that this monstrous plot is at an end.” With his sword, he indicated Morannus. “Is that the leader, then?”
“Yes. Morannus. It pains me that I thought him a friend once.” Nermesa grimaced at the memories. “He and the man I chased from your province, Wulfrim, seemed to be the ones—”
Bolontes’ son felt the blood drain from his face. By now, the last of the Gundermen had either fallen or been captured, mostly the former. Those few still alive had been more or less wrestled to the ground. A good thing, since there would need to be some questioning later.
“What is it? I do not like the expression you wear, Nermesa.”
“Wulfrim . . . where is he?” Nermesa leapt off his mount. He glanced at the prisoners, did not find the man he sought, and so began turning over one corpse after another.
Yet none of them were Morannus’s second.
“Mitra!” the Aquilonian gasped. He spun around to face Prospero. “Wulfrim is missing! He’s not among the living or the dead!”
Both men looked toward the battle.
The Black Dragon jumped into the saddle. As Prospero turned to one of the other knights, Nermesa urged his mount to make haste. Behind him, he heard the Poitainian shouting for one of the others to take charge of the prisoners and the dead.
Certain that Prospero was on his heels but not daring to take the time to even glance behind to make certain, Nermesa urged his steed on. He bent low, trying not to slow the animal in any manner.
The Aquilonian host seemed so far away, even though it had not moved much after the initial charge. Both armies chipped away at each other, with King Conan’s followers likely doing more damage than the Nemedians. Under normal circumstances, the outcome of the battle would have already been decided.
But there was still one hand that could change the course of the future. Somewhere, Wulfrim waited for his chance to do what Nermesa had not. Perhaps he had already done so, and news of the deed had not yet spread throughout the Aquilonian force. Nermesa prayed that was not the case.
Now he understood Morannus’s laugh and last words. The dying Gunderman had already known that his second had not been among those coming to trap Nermesa. There could be only one reason, and that was because Wulfrim had a more important task, to kill the king. In fact, Nermesa now suspected that Morannus had in part drawn him away in order to give Wulfrim more opportunity.
And it was the Aquilonian who had granted the second Gunderman the chance in the first place. Wulfrim and the others had only been allowed near the king because they were “comrades” of one of the Cimmerian’s most trusted knights.
Cursing himself for a fool, Nermesa surveyed the host as he neared the rear lines. At first, he could see no sign of the golden lion banner. If it had fallen, that might also mean that he was too late to save his liege.
No! The lion suddenly reared up on Nermesa’s far right. However, the Aquilonian immediately swore again. Despite the promising sign of the banner, its location meant that Nermesa had farther to ride than he had thought.
With a yell, he charged into the mass of men and animals. Startled soldiers leapt out of his way as best they could. Nermesa wished to hurt no one, but if King Conan perished, then so would most of those here.
“Away, damn you! Away!” he demanded of a band of men-at-arms ignorant of the rider coming up behind them. Some scurried, others turned to stare. Nermesa’s countenance must have been a fright to behold, for most of the latter quickly followed after their comrades, almost as if the Nemedian army had somehow crept up on them from the rear.
Bit by bit, he made headway, but to Nermesa, it was as if his horse stood still. Each second, he expected to hear a mass cry of anguish, then see the core of the host crumble. That neither had so far happened was the only thread of hope left to him.
The golden lion banner now loomed tall. Nermesa saw Black Dragons and even—from a distance—General Pallantides, but not the legendary Cimmerian. Worse, he noticed that the Nemedian lines were very close to the where the banner stood, meaning that, in addition to Wulfrim, there was the danger of enemy soldiers, too.
Then, from the mix of bloody figures, he heard a loud bellow. A moment later, a Nemedian soldier went flying back among his fellows, minus his head.
King Conan straightened. He seemed a giant even compared to his Black Dragons. Somewhere along the way, the former mercenary had lost both his horse and his helmet. The blade of his great broadsword was awash in crimson fluids, as was much of his armor.
Even as Nermesa spotted him, King Conan took on another foe. As broad of shoulder as the Nemedian was, his skills were ill matched against the monarch’s. Conan took him in three easy swings, cutting the man first in the shoulder, then on the wrist of the sword arm, and finally through the neck.
Nermesa could not help but admire his lord’s abilities, so well honed were they even after several years on the throne. Conan was like no other ruler, priding himself on maintaining the same ethic of training as his elite guards. Even Tarascus, rumored to be an excellent swordsman, could not compare, for when the two had previously met, the match had been short and sweet.
But while there was no sign of the Nemedian despot, Nermesa did at last see Wulfrim. The Gunderman was on foot, barely visible in the crush of bodies. He was a few yards behind and to the left of the king and, unlike most everyone else, his focus was not on the battle ahead.
Why Wulfrim had not had a chance to do the devilish deed quickly became apparent. At Conan’s back stood two Black Dragons. One of them, Nermesa recognized. The blond hair and jutting chin belonged to none other than Paulo, a close friend of his even among the Dragons. Nermesa cheered at the recognition but could not call out for fear of warning Wulfrim of his approach.
A wave of bodies suddenly blocked Nermesa’s path. Try as he might, Bolontes’ son could not get the men to move enough to allow the horse room. Nermesa finally leapt from the animal, leaving it to roam as he slipped through toward the king.
Although now the knight made more headway again, his view of the situation worsened. Sometimes, he could not even see anything but the banner. This he focused on most, so that he did not suddenly turn in the wrong direction.
He had a momentary glimpse of Wulfrim, then the two Black Dragons again. For several anxious breaths, all Nermesa then saw was the helmets of soldiers. Those finally gave way to a welcome view—however brief—of the entire spectacle. King Conan, Wulfrim, and Paulo. Nermesa searched for the other Dragon and finally found him some distance ahead trying to fill the gap left by the death of another comrade.
Wulfrim abruptly darted toward where the king did battle.
“Paulo!” Nermesa shouted. “Paulo! Beware!”
But his words were lost in the pandemonium. Nermesa shoved aside an archer, not caring in the least that he spoiled the man’s aim. Wulfrim was only a few steps from his intended victim.
Paulo glanced in the Gunderman’s direction, then looked away again. Nermesa could not fault him, for Paulo had grown up as the other knight had, thinking of Gundermen as just another normal part of Aquilonian existence.
Wulfrim neared King Conan . . . then slipped next to Paulo. The other Black Dragon acknowledged the Gunderman. As he struggled to reach them, Nermesa felt the hairs on his neck stiffen.