“But the way the body was mangled—” began Dralos.
“Picts’re beasts, as I’ve always said! Done by them to shake our nerves!” He grunted, more at ease despite the butchery. “They brought this on themselves, keeping those females here! The rules warn against such fraternization! Aye, that’s how it came about, mark me!”
His words did not entirely ease the thoughts of his men but did put the massacre more into a perspective that they could understand. It would not have been the first time that so-called friendlies had proven to be spies.
“Gather the bodies. We’ve no time for burials. Get a pyre started just outside the walls and make certain it’s well tended. And get that body off the barracks door!”
As the men moved to obey, Trajan located the officers’ quarters. With Dralos behind him, he shoved open the door and stepped inside. Two more bodies lay immediately within, one of them the fort commander. Unshirted, he had easily fallen victim to a stab in the back.
Dralos, his composure much returned, knelt by the corpse. “This is no Pict weapon, Captain. Looks like good steel did this!”
“Brigands, then. Likely Khatak’s bunch. He’s got his Pict ties . . .” Trajan moved on to the next room . . . and suddenly stopped still at the doorway.
Dralos rose. “Captain, what—”
“Shut the front door, Dralos . . .” his commander snapped in a low tone. “Now.”
After the soldier had obeyed, he joined Trajan. Dralos peered past him and swore.
Two other officers lay dead, obviously stabbed. Near them, however, also lay the bodies of four young Pictish females.
Trajan looked over the latter. They had been as brutally treated as the Aquilonians. “Dralos. I want two men who can be trusted to keep their mouths shut. I want those bodies wrapped up so that they can’t be identified, then tossed on the pyre when it’s burning strong.”
“Maybe . . . maybe there was another wench who did like you said or some other Pict who worked at the fort—”
“That’s likely true, but if the others see these bodies, it’ll get them all worked up. They’ll start wondering about that body at the gates or the others like it. Truth be told, Dralos, nothing human did that, not even something so base as a Pict.”
“But you said—”
The captain gave him a harsh look. “I know what I said. Find the men and deal with these bodies. We stay the night, then tomorrow leave half our troops here with supplies and ride back in haste to tell General Boronius everything.”
Dralos looked more uneasy again. “Leave half here?”
“They’re soldiers of Aquilonia. Besides, it won’t be maybe a little more than a week before they get some reinforcements.”
“More like a month . . .” the other soldier muttered. Nevertheless, he saluted and went off to find the men whom Trajan had requested.
The veteran officer eyed the bloody display. One night. It would be more than enough for Trajan’s taste. The sooner he got back to Scanaga, the sooner General Boronius could properly take care of the matter. It would be out of Trajan’s hands.
“Damned wilderness,” he growled as he made his way to the beds. Thankfully, at least they were bereft of blood. He could sleep here tonight . . . once the bodies were gone.
He lit an oil lamp that had somehow survived the chaos, then tore a large blanket from one of the beds and began the task of wrapping up the first of the Pict bodies. Dralos returned a few moments later with the two men in question, both of whom Trajan knew to be trustworthy. The small party quickly finished their morbid work, and the two began lugging the first of the women out.
“Treat her like she’s heavier,” their commanding officer reminded them. “The others must think them the bodies of our own.”
When the last of the corpses had been removed and Dralos reported that the fire had consumed them, Trajan finally relaxed. He had men guarding every wall and the pyre under strict control. Dralos and two other seasoned fighters had command of the troops for the night. There was no hint of trouble outside. The fort was well secure.
“Report to me when you come off duty,” he ordered Dralos before dismissing him. Because of the native girls’ bodies, the beds were bereft of blankets, but Trajan had slept out in the open enough in his life that the loss mattered not a whit. Not even bothering to remove his breastplate, the captain fell back and shut his eyes.
A sound on the roof made him open them wide again.
The oil lamp still flickered with life, creating shadows on the walls. Trajan blinked, his inner clock—trained through years of service to Aquilonia—immediately informing him that he had probably slept some two hours.
The captain waited, but the sound did not repeat itself. He finally started to relax again—and then shouts and screams shook him to the core.
“No . . .”
Trajan leapt to his feet, his sword already half-drawn. He ran to the door, wondering why his guards had not alerted him.
A bright light leaked through the cracks. Trajan smelled smoke. He tore open the door.
Swarthy figures wielding axes and swords filled the fort.
And the gate was open again.
As for his two sentries, both lay dead, one with his neck broken and the other with a gaping hole in his throat that brought back visions of the body found at the gates.
A wild cry was all the warning Trajan had before the brigand nearly severed his neck. The captain leapt back, recovered, and pressed his would-be killer. The bearded and unkempt thief was no match for his expertise. Trajan’s blade artfully cut open his chest.
As his foe collapsed, Trajan grabbed hold of a soldier running past him. “You! How did this happen?”
“Someone opened the gates!” the other answered uselessly.
“Ridiculous! No one in this troop would do so, and the walls are too steep for any man to climb without gear!”
Yet, the gates were open . . . but how?
He had no more chance to discover the truth, for suddenly an arrow caught the soldier in the back of the head. With a gasp, the man slumped against Trajan. The captain unceremoniously tossed the twitching corpse aside, then ducked a second shot. Swearing, Trajan slipped behind one of the supply wagons and attempted to collect his thoughts.
Everywhere the clang of metal resounded. A voice shouting commands stirred the officer. Dralos.
“Re-form ranks!” his second called. “Watch the horses!”
Trajan followed Dralos’s voice, spotting the other Aquilonian outlined in the flames of a burning wagon. A small band of soldiers stood with him.
He started for the band, certain that with this as the nucleus, they could rebuild and counterattack. There were not so many brigands that a squad of well-trained soldiers could not run them off. Surprise had been the only reason for the disaster—
Then, to his astonishment, a single, huge figure leapt from one of the walls. The drop should have slain the reckless attacker, but, somehow, he landed unharmed . . . and in the midst of Dralos’s fighters.
They should have cut him to ribbons, but, instead, the giant brigand raised one Aquilonian high and threw him into several of the others. Another who sought to attack the newcomer was seized by the arm . . . an arm that, a breath later, cracked audibly. The shadowy brigand then crushed in his victim’s skull with a huge fist.
What sort of man is he? Trajan wondered. Could that be Khatak?
As he started forward again, a sharp pain caught him in the thigh. The end of a shaft thrust out from his leg. Trajan stumbled down on one knee.
He looked up in time to see Dralos lunge at the berserker. Dralos was almost as large as his foe and with his skill with a sword should have easily cut down the brigand, but the latter moved with inhuman swiftness, leaping atop Trajan’s man and—
The captain nearly lost his last meal. The fearsome figure had thrust his head forward and bit Dralos through the throat.
“Mitra!” Ignoring his own pain, Trajan pushed himself forward in
the hopes of coming to the rescue. However, a bearded figure with wild black hair and a crooked grin suddenly blocked his way. The robber had no shirt, only a jerkin, and on his chest were tattoos of Pictish design.
“You would be their commanding officer, yes?”
“Away, you filth!” Trajan slashed, but the easy kill he expected never materialized, for the brigand parried his sword with ease, then forced the wounded captain back. Trajan quickly realized that he faced a master swordsman.
The captain was pushed farther back. Trajan gritted his teeth as desperation filled him. All around, his men were being slaughtered, and he could do nothing.
In his foe’s steely eyes Trajan saw that this was just what the brigand intended. Without a capable commander, the soldiers would be easier to slay.
“Ungh!” A red cut now graced the Aquilonian’s right cheek. He knew then that he was outclassed. This half-breed fought with skills far beyond most of Trajan’s fellow officers.
At that point, he realized who it was he faced. “You! You’re Khatak!”
The crooked grin grew pleased. “Ha! Yes, I am Khatak! Khatak the Sly! Khatak the Black Fox!”
Trajan had little doubt that he would die, but, if he could take the master brigand, then his own death would have some worth. Summoning up his remaining strength, the captain pushed his skills to the limit. He succeeded in halting Khatak’s advance, then forced the ebony-maned bandit to retreat.
Yet, Khatak seemed, if anything, entertained by his situation. He laughed. “Good! Very good!”
Growling, Captain Trajan sought for the throat. The point of his sword slipped past Khatak’s guard—
And an impossibly strong hand grabbed the Aquilonian by the nape of the neck. Trajan dangled in the air, then was turned to face the one who held him like a child. The putrid stench of a carnivore filled his nostrils.
The face . . . the face was a nightmare.
“Mitra protect me! What is it?”
He heard Khatak chuckle. “My own personal god.”
Yellow fangs four inches long buried themselves in Trajan’s throat as the Aquilonian screamed.
THE CLASH OF blades echoed through Nermesa’s ears.
“Again!” thundered the officer in charge, a thick-necked veteran with several scars and a patch covering one eye. He strode among the combatants, studying the various duels.
The torchlit chamber held three dozen men, most of them aristocrats hoping to prove their worth as knights of the realm. In the old days, all a noble had to do was pay enough gold, and he could gain the rank he desired. That had changed with the coming of Conan. Now the value of a man was in his wit and his sword arm, not his birth. That rankled many old families, but the results could not be denied. The Aquilonian military was at its best level in decades.
Even Nermesa had secretly hoped that, as a noble of Tarantia, he might be able to gain the posting of his desire, chiefly the Black Dragons. The king’s personal bodyguard was known for its strength and allegiance, and to become one was a mark of achievement few ever attained. Only about five hundred men at any one time wore the crested breastplates with the stylized beast emblazoned on the front, five hundred out of the fifty-five thousand and more that made up the Aquilonian military.
But even though Nermesa considered his skills up to the standards of the august company, it had become clear to him in just a few days that such a dream was not yet to be his. Exactly where he would end up was, to his knowledge, derived from some arcane and perhaps even random formula. All the young noble understood was that in another two days, he would be sent somewhere.
“Watch that sloppy bladework!” the senior officer, Garaldo, snapped. He was, in fact, a knight of Poitain who had once served directly under Prospero, not only commander of the forces of Count Trocero of Poitain, but also one of the king’s most trusted advisors. But minutes after first introducing himself, Garaldo had picked out several of the most prominent of the new recruits and beaten each of them handily in combat.
“Just so each of you know from here on why you young blue bloods won’t be given instant command of some part of his majesty’s army,” he had said afterward.
The lesson had taken with Nermesa. Now he wanted only not to embarrass himself before the highly skilled Garaldo. If he succeeded in that, then perhaps there might be hope that his posting would not be in some backwater area where the greatest danger was the risk of dying from boredom.
Garaldo stalked past him, watching each move carefully. Sometimes, Nermesa wondered whether the eye with the patch was actually useless; the Poitainian seemed to see things even to the side of it.
The fighters wore padded vests and helmets over pants and shirt. Today they wielded swords, but, in the past few days, they had trained with a variety of weapons, both on foot and on horseback. Veterans like Garaldo continuously monitored every action, however minute.
Nermesa’s current opponent tried a foolhardy lunge, no doubt in an attempt to impress Garaldo. Bolontes’ son easily dodged it, then brought his own blade over the other’s guard. The blunted tip jabbed the other noble right above the heart.
Garaldo stepped between them.
“You’re looking like a true leader,” commented the veteran knight . . . to Nermesa’s adversary. As Nermesa stared incredulously, and the other fighter started to grin, Garaldo wryly added, “Yes, you’ll lead your men straight into the afterlife with foolhardy stunts like that!” Turning to Nermesa, he added, “A good, strong return, but you want the blade here.” Garaldo guided the tip to where the center of the heart was located. “He might’ve lived long enough to gut you in turn. Always aim for the vital areas.”
“Yes, Sir Garaldo.”
Only then did Nermesa notice in the background a figure who seemed to be studying the group in earnest. A rich, purple cloak with silver threading draped over the watcher from his shoulders almost to the floor. Narrow brown eyes that missed nothing swept over Nermesa with obvious interest.
The heir to Klandes held back a frown. The dark complexion, vulpine features, and thick, long black hair reminded him of the people of Ophir, whose lands lay beyond the southern mountains of Aquilonia, yet there was something familiar about the man, obviously a noble and a knight.
Only when the figure turned and strode away—slightly limping—did Nermesa realize who he was . . . and how much of a fool Bolontes’ son must have looked, staring back so.
The cloak had shifted away just enough to reveal laced, silver armor . . . and a breastplate upon which a hissing wyrm of ebony stood. It was an emblem worn by only one man in all the kingdom . . . Pallantides, commander of the Black Dragons themselves.
Garaldo did not hear his groan, the senior knight having moved on to the next pair, but another did.
“There something the matter, Master Nermesa? You suddenly look ill.”
“Nothing’s wrong except that I keep doing things to make my dreams stay dreams and never reality, that’s all. Do you know who that was?”
Quentus frowned. Like his lord, he was covered in sweat. He trained with the young nobles, although how Nermesa’s father had arranged that the son did could not fathom. It showed the great influence of Klandes in the royal court despite any misgivings Bolontes might have concerning Conan. “Somebody important,” the bearded man muttered. “All that silver armor and all.”
“General Pallantides,” Nermesa revealed. “Of the Black Dragons.”
“Aaah. Maybe he saw your fine swordplay, Master Nermesa.”
“More likely he saw me gaping at him like a fool. Not the sort of demeanor one would look for in a future Black Dragon ...”
“All right!” snapped Garaldo to the group. “That’s enough for now! Your time’s your own for the rest of the day, but we’ll all start new before first light, so you’d be wise to see yourselves to your beds soon!”
Nermesa exhaled in relief. Quentus passed him a water sack, from which the noble greedily drank. “I never thought it would be this difficult . . .”
“You’ve done yourself proud, Master Nermesa.”
“We’ll see.”
As they left the gray-walled practice room, they heard sounds coming from other chambers. During the reign of King Namedides, this far-off section on the right half of the vast palace had been reserved for torture. At any one time, dozens who had run afoul of the tyrant’s lusts had been condemned to it. Iron maidens, racks, and cat-o’-nine-tails had been only a few of the monstrous tools in use then.
King Conan had disposed of all of those and remade the chambers into training areas, yet there were those who swore that the ghosts of Namedides’ victims still wailed from the corridors.
However, it was no phantom’s wail that startled Nermesa, but rather a loud, enthusiastic roar from the room to his right. He and Quentus paused in the doorway in time to see two giants grappling with one another. The one facing them was a tawny-haired Gunderman with beady eyes, a broad jaw, and an even broader grin. He stood a good hand taller than his opponent, who was also some outlander, although of what people, Nermesa could not say. The square-cut black mane and sun-browned skin clearly marked him as from far away. Even though the Gunderman outweighed him, there was something about the latter’s catlike movements and muscled body that made Nermesa choose him as the better of the two.
Sure enough, a moment later, his choice proved one of wisdom. The black-haired wrestler twisted, pulling his opponent over his wide shoulder. The Gunderman sought to counter, but leverage was with his foe. The huge fighter went flying over, landing with a thud on the cloth mat covering the floor.
Not taking any chances, the other outlander shifted position, forcing the Gunderman onto his stomach and bending one arm tight behind the back. He then planted one powerful knee on his adversary to complete his victory.
The pinned wrestler let out a groan, then rumbled, “I yield, your majesty!”
“Your—” Nermesa blurted before catching himself.
Smoldering blue eyes glanced toward the doorway, then, apparently sizing up the young noble as of no concern, quickly returned to the match. The victor released the Gunderman, who rolled over and accepted his monarch’s assistance up.
The God in the Moon Page 3