The Silent Enemy Read Online Free Page B

balding man who hardly seemed the sort to be a member of King Conan’s powerful inner circle, tapped the royal seal on the pouch’s lip as he handed it to the knight.
    “Count Trocero will not accept this if the seal is cracked! Mind that nothing happens to cause that! I told the king that he should send a courier with an armed escort, but he and the general think this wiser!” Publius tsked. In his anxiousness, the many gold chains around his neck tinkled. He wore a long, draping purple robe that strained to contain his voluminous belly. “Don’t know why the king even has me if he won’t listen.”
    Nermesa nodded politely, responding accordingly. He was well aware that the man before him, for all his anxious blathering, was a cunning politician whose goals on occasion did not—at least to Bolontes’ son—match those of his liege. Still, Conan relied on him for much more than Publius let on.
    “It will reach the count safely and securely,” Nermesa promised.
    With a noncommittal grunt, the chancellor bid him good journey, then seemed to dismiss the Black Dragon from his thoughts. Nermesa mounted the brown charger he had been given for the journey. A trusted stable hand brought up the reins of his pack animal, a dusky, dreary-eyed mule that could have, from a distance, passed for a fairly good horse.
    “Your things are packed well, my lord. In addition to the dried food in your saddlebags, you’ll be finding some more with your armor.”
    “Thank you, Ulric.”
    “Think you could bring back a Poitainian lass for me?” asked the hand with a grimy smile. “Or at least some of their fine wine?”
    Nermesa chuckled. “If I brought either, Sir Garaldo would claim both before you saw them.”
    Sir Garaldo had been one of Nermesa’s chief trainers upon his arrival in the palace and was a respected fighter. He kept a tight leash on those he felt under his jurisdiction. Since he was also a master with horses, he considered the grooms and stable hands to fall under his command, as well, whether they actually were or not.
    Ulric chuckled, then went to open the way for Nermesa. Bolontes’ son was clad as many a general traveler was, with brown tunic and pants, boots, and a nondescript, hooded cloak of a look akin to his other garments. The leather pouch he had secreted in his saddlebags. His sword hung in a much-abused sheath at his side, the spectacular hilt masked with weathered leather bound tight. Other than his height—which was three or four inches above the average—there was nothing out of the ordinary that might mark him as more than a simple peddler or pilgrim.
    Nermesa left the palace just as the first light of day began filtering over the horizon. Already there were merchants in the market beginning to open up their carts, shops, or tents, and several early shoppers waited at some of them. However, for the most part, the streets were still fairly empty, and those who did look the rider’s way did so with only vague and momentary interest.
    Those guards who knew him for who and what he was let him pass but did not otherwise acknowledge his true status. The same held true for the sentries at Tarantia’s southern gates. They gave Nermesa’s belongings a purposely cursory inspection, then called for others to open the gargantuan, toothed gates and let him pass. As he rode beyond the iron gates, Nermesa’s confidence swelled. Getting out of the capital itself would probably turn out to be the slowest part of his journey. From here on, there was nothing but open plain until near the boundary of Poitain, where the mountains lay. However, according to the instructions given to him by General Pallantides, even crossing them would not be too difficult. Towers and castles lined the most prominent passes, and along with the pouch Nermesa had been given a seal with the golden lion symbol of the king on the top and Count Trocero’s own crimson leopard beneath. The seal would gain him passage through the mountain