People lined the street as the column passed. Most wore armor of some sort. In truth, there were yet more soldiers than settlers here, and many of the latter had direct ties to the former. However, as the focal point of the western expansion, Scanaga was also the place where new settlers paused before venturing out to stake their claims and entrepreneurial merchants sought new markets or exotic items to take back to the old ones. The mix of people brought some comfort to Nermesa, for it was, at least, a ghost of the sort of scene he was accustomed to back home.
Scanaga had the only true streets in this part of the Westermarck, even if they were mostly of stone and gravel. The clatter of hooves and wheels marked the column’s entry into the colonial capital. Nermesa eyed the guards on the walkways of the walls and beside the gates, noting how much less polished they looked compared to his own party. Yet, what they lacked in shininess, they made up for in experience. These were hardened men, veterans now. Most had been out trying to tame the frontier for more than a year and, in that time, Nermesa knew, those not up to the task had been brutally culled by the Picts.
The notion did not put fear into him, but still, he swore again to be careful. He would not make the mistakes that so many others had. He had been singled out by General Pallantides and Sir Garaldo; they surely expected great things of him.
Thinking of that, he straightened. It would not do to look hesitant and uncertain. Ignoring the ever-present mosquitoes, Nermesa began nodding directly to onlookers, his expression hopefully confident. The settlers and shopkeepers were friendly enough, many waving; but a few smirked, as if they knew better.
A sentry atop the inner wall waved down to those within the military section. The gates there opened up, and the column entered.
Five towers stood in Scanaga, one each on the corners of the outer wall and the last in the midst of the inner fort. General Boronius’s headquarters lay just below it. General Octavio, the commander of the column, led his men to a waiting column of knights and men-at-arms just before one of the few stonework structures that Nermesa had seen so far. The golden lion flew high overhead, marking it as their destination.
Octavio, a gaunt, mustached veteran on his third expedition to the Westermarck, signaled the halt. As he did, a trumpeter near the door of the building sounded a single note.
From within stepped a barrel-chested figure in armor who looked nearly as powerful as the king. His craggy features were partially draped by a thick, impressive mustache that hung below his chin. Somewhere along in his career, his nose had been crushed, and the mender who had reset it had not done the best job. The results added menace to an already fearsome face.
Under a single, thick black brow, piercing brown eyes took the measure of the newcomers. Boronius kept his helmet in the crook of his arm, allowing his slightly graying hair to drop free over his shoulders. His armor was weathered but kept polished, and Nermesa noticed that the guards standing nearest also seemed neater than their counterparts at the outer gates.
“General Octavio . . .” Boronius’s baritone fit his image perfectly. “Welcome back . . .”
The other officer dismounted, and the two clasped gauntleted hands together. There was that in their guarded expressions that nonetheless hinted that these two were comrades of old.
“General Boronius! Scanaga is a welcome sight, as are you.”
The commander of the west laughed. “Ha! Only if you don’t live here!”
Although Octavio joined him in laughing, no one else so much as breathed wrong. Neither man had given them permission to do so.
The column’s leader removed his own helm. While Boronius still had a good head of hair, his counterpart had lost most of his long ago. Removing one glove, Octavio ran a hand over his sweating scalp. “I bring you a gift from King Conan and General Pallantides . . .” He indicated Nermesa and the rest. “The finest that they could muster.”
Boronius gave a grunt, whether of approval or distaste, the young Klandes could not say. General Octavio turned to his men and shouted, “Riders dismount!”
The knights and those men-at-arms on horseback did so as one. With the exception of a small, personal coat of arms on the silver breastplate of each knight, they were clad almost identically. The mounted men-at-arms wore armor less elaborate in make and had no crests to their helmets, but there was little other difference. Nobles like Nermesa had brought their own armor and weapons, and the mark of House Klandes stood proud on his chest. All of them, however wore metal badges affixed to their right shoulders that bore King Conan’s symbols.
“A timely reinforcement,” General Boronius finally remarked. He glanced to his left. “Caltero! Take these men and see to settling them in as quickly as possible!”
Caltero? Nermesa risked tilting his head to the side just enough to see the knight with whom the general spoke.
“Aye, my lord!” With the exception of the newcomers, Caltero was possibly the most gleaming among the assembled fighters. His armor was immaculate. He wore a neatly trimmed beard that ended just below his cleft chin. His plumed, open-faced helmet did not obscure the golden locks or the merry, silver-blue eyes. The face itself much resembled Nermesa’s, although it was more refined, more handsome . . . at least to Bolontes’ son.
Briefly leaning forward, Quentus whispered, “Did you know your cousin was here?”
Nermesa shook his head. Although older by a good ten summers, Caltero was the eldest son of Bolontes’ younger brother, a veteran soldier slain in the struggle against Xaltotun and the Nemedians. As a child, Caltero’s few visits had been fun times for Nermesa, but once his cousin had decided for a permanent career in the military, those visits had all but ceased. Still, the two had remained in contact on and off during the years, and it was in part because of Caltero that Nermesa had first begun to flirt with the idea of serving the king he so admired.
Caltero stepped before the column, then waved his arm to the north. “This way! Those with the wagons, stay where you are! You’ll be dealt with afterward!”
A number of other knights from Scanaga followed with Nermesa’s cousin, obviously there to assist in arranging the newcomers’ lodgings.
“Noble knights, your places are in there,” Caltero declared, pointing at a long, oak structure with a stone base. Gesturing farther on, he added, “Mounted men-at-arms to the next . . .” The other soldiers were assigned accordingly.
“I will come to assist you at first chance, Master Nermesa,” Quentus said with an apologetic bow. He hurried after the others of his rank.
Luxury was a commodity unnecessary in the eyes of General Boronius, and the quarters given to Nermesa and the others showed that. Each knight had a cot with a space next to it for storing the armor. Small dividing walls gave some semblance of privacy, and wooden hooks on them marked where Nermesa could keep cloth garments or even items such as his breastplate. The cot consisted of a thick blanket in a box-shaped frame, with another thick blanket atop. Both blankets had seen much use, and Nermesa tried not to think about what had happened to his predecessors.
“Those of you with servants attached as men-at-arms can have them assist you with your armor and belongings,” Caltero called out. “Those without can call on aid from whatever common soldiers you find!”
The elder Klandes cousin started to turn, then sighted Nermesa. With a grin, Caltero wended his way through the others. “Aah! Cousin! The general told me that you were supposed to be among the arrivals!” He clasped Nermesa tight on the shoulders. Caltero stood an inch taller than his younger relative. “Look at you! A warrior of the realm!”
Caltero’s enthusiasm was contagious. Nermesa grinned back and briefly hugged his cousin. “It’s good to see you, Caltero! Your last letter came more than a year ago! We only had word from a friend that you were still out here and not—”
“Not decorating a Pict’s spear, yes! Ha! Where else would I go? Klandes is yours, and the only thing I’ve ever been good at is fighting and drinking . . . and women, of course!”
>
“You must be good at command, from what I saw. General Boronius seemed to rely on you.”
“The Boar’s managed to stir up a bit of responsibility in me, yes.” In a conspiratorial whisper, Caltero added, “The name’s meant good, for he fights like the tusked beast in war. He even knows of it and approves . . . out of earshot. Just don’t use it in his presence; he likes decorum.”
Nermesa would not have even thought to do so. He was familiar with the general’s reputation and respected Boronius almost as much as he did Pallantides. “I’ll remember that.”
“Fine! Now, then! ’Tis nearly time for the evening meal; then, afterward, you lot can unencumber yourselves and get some rest! You’re to be individually presented to the general at first light, so make sure you’re up and armored again! Make no mistake about it, cousin; he’ll put you to work immediately!”
“Of course.”
Again, Caltero leaned close. “Tomorrow night, when things are a bit more calm, I’ll have a little entertainment for the two of us to welcome you here . . .”
He slapped Nermesa on the back and strode off before the younger Klandes could ask what he meant. Barely a moment later, a bell clanged—the call to supper. Nermesa dropped the few belongings that he had carried from his horse onto the cot, then hurried with the others to the dining hall. General Octavio had wanted to reach Scanaga before dark, and so the only food that his men had been able to eat was whatever rations they could pull from their saddle packs while still riding.
The dining hall proved to be a building identical to the barracks save that, instead of cots with separating partitions, a series of three long, well-worn wooden tables with accompanying benches filled it. The new arrivals ate alone, Scanaga’s contingent having eaten just prior. Nermesa and the rest of Octavio’s men had come to replace soldiers either slain, heading home, or being sent off to other parts of the territories.
For the knights, the meal consisted of cooked oats with a piece of seasoned but stringy mutton. Such as it was, it was still likely better than what Quentus was eating and definitely better than those ranking even lower had for their meal. A goblet of frontier ale—tart and mud-brown—enabled Nermesa to down his food with only minimal effort.
Quentus met him outside the knights’ quarters, the man-at-arms belching as his master approached. “Pardon, my lord! I think the rabbit in the stew was tryin’ to hop back out ...”
“No doubt to follow the old sheep who made up part of my meal.”
“Well, we knew it wasn’t goin’ to be one of Ariana’s specialties,” Quentus returned, referring to the Klandes’ cook. Originally from a region in the southern part of Aquilonia, the stout slave woman had learned how to use spices from the neighboring lands in astonishing ways.
“I expected all this, Quentus.” Nermesa had, but still he missed the wonderful aromas of his home . . . them and his soft, plush bed. “Come in and help me with this armor.”
With practiced hands, the servant aided him in removing the plates and other components. Quentus set them aside as carefully as he could. “Will you be leaving your quarters, Master Nermesa?”
“No. Leave everything packed for now, though. I spoke with my cousin.” Nermesa told Quentus what Caltero had said about the coming day. “I don’t want anything to go wrong.”
“I’ll be around to help you first thing, my lord.” Quentus bowed and, with a clank of metal, marched off. Only after he was alone did Bolontes’ son think about the fact that Quentus would have to remove his own armor without aid.
The cot creaked precariously as he sat down on it. Nermesa made a belated search of the blankets and, fortunately, found them devoid of unwanted bed partners. Several other new arrivals had begun their own preparations for sleep, but the clink of metal and muttering voices made no dent in Nermesa’s immense weariness. Scant seconds after he laid his head down, the heir to Klandes was fast asleep.
TRUE TO HIS word, Quentus awoke him early. Nermesa noted that his companion was already clad. Quentus went about his work silently and efficiently, finishing up the task in quick order.
There was just enough time to eat before Caltero came for him. As one of the senior officers, Nermesa’s cousin had quarters of his own. Looking as immaculate as ever, the elder Klandes nodded approval.
“Keep straight, and the Boar will find you suitable! Don’t let me down; I’ve talked you up a bit!”
The knights on sentry duty saluted Caltero as the pair approached. One then knocked twice on the door.
“Enter!” bellowed Boronius from within.
The same guard ushered them inside but left the door open. General Boronius sat behind a weathered writing table. Hints of gilt on the scrollwork edges yet remained. Nermesa suspected that the desk had been out in the Westermarck far longer than its current user.
Helm set aside on the left corner of the table, the Boar sat studying maps and reports. Half-rolled scrolls lay everywhere. A tarnished, round-bottomed, brass oil lamp dangling from a chain above illuminated the room. The two windows, one on each opposing side, were shuttered despite its being day.
Boronius looked up at the duo. “So, Caltero. This one is of your blood?”
“My cousin, Nermesa of Klandes, General. Heir to our House.”
“A good House, Klandes,” the huge knight remarked with a slight nod. “A good House.”
His tone hinted that he knew Klandes even better than his words indicated. Of course, Caltero had been stationed here for some years, so, why would he not? Nermesa politely nodded at the compliment to his family.
“Thank you, Caltero. You may leave us alone now.”
Nermesa’s cousin saluted. He closed the door behind him, the shutting of it a sound that made a tense Nermesa nearly jump.
Boronius glanced down at something in one of the reports and snorted in a manner that only emphasized the name by which his subordinates called him. Looking up at Nermesa, he growled, “Just another whining complaint by one of the barons supposedly in charge of these territories! Can’t supply the fresh goods I’ve requested! Too taxing on his subjects, he says! Ha!”
Crumpling up the parchment, Boronius threw it on the planked floor. Nermesa noticed two other similarly crushed missives.
“Too taxing on their riches, I’d say!” The frontier commander gazed at the figure before him. “I’m no noble like you, Captain Nermesa, but I am the general in charge of trying to tame this wilderness! I started as a man-at-arms with only what my good master gave me to carry on my back, but I proved better than a lot of fancy aristocrats who came out here and got their coiffured heads cut off within a week!”
Nermesa had no idea why Boronius told him all this, but wisely chose to stay silent.
“Why’ve you come out here, Nermesa of Klandes? Why leave the safety of your bed in Tarantia?”
“To serve King Conan as best as I’m able, General!” the noble replied without hesitation. “To repay him for what he’s done for Aquilonia . . .”
The Boar eyed him dubiously. “A Cimmerian? A pirate and thief? You know all they say about his past, and you still wish to serve that barbarian?”
His words stunned Nermesa. He knew that there were still many among the aristocracy and military elite who secretly looked down on the Cimmerian as nothing more than barbarous scum, but he had hardly expected to hear such words from the king’s frontier commander.
“General Boronius, I know only what King Conan has done for Aquilonia since overthrowing Namedides, and I honor him for that. If this disagrees with your opinion, I am willing to be posted somewhere else—”
“Ha!” The general smiled grimly. “There’s no worry about that! Hear me, young Nermesa . . . I wish there were more with your belief in our liege! It’d make my task that much easier.”
Nermesa blinked. “I don’t understand . . .”
Boronius waved off his curiosity. “Never mind. You’re dismissed for now.”
Startled anew by the sudden end to their meeting, Nermesa
saluted. Yet, as he turned away, he heard the general mutter, “Damn shame . . .”
Looking over his shoulder, the young knight asked, “Sir?”
Glaring, the Boar rumbled, “Go, Klandes!”
Nermesa wasted no more time, fairly leaping out the door. He found Caltero waiting outside for him.
“How did it go?” his cousin inquired, smiling.
“I’m not quite certain. I don’t understand half of what we discussed!”
“He has that effect on those serving him, yes.” Caltero put a companionable arm around his cousin’s shoulder. “The day’s training is about to start. I’d recommend getting some wine to wash out the taste of your encounter, then ready yourself for a few bruises”—he chuckled wryly—“or worse.”
5
CALTERO HAD NOT been exaggerating. The grueling training sessions through which Sir Garaldo had put him seemed like child’s play compared to what General Boronius expected his fighters to suffer.
There was much dueling, but without padded ends on the blades, which forced the combatants to be far more careful. Even still, more than one knight and several men-at-arms were cut, a couple badly. The same held true for the lance work, which was performed by charging down on a wooden board with a heart painted where a Pict’s would be. Simple enough . . . save that archers fired at the charging knight from behind the standing plank. Fortunately, their shafts were blunted, or else the corpses of Nermesa and several comrades likely would have littered the field.
There was no rest between sessions, for, as General Boronius put it before they started, “Those tattooed devils aren’t going to take a pause so you can catch your breaths! They’re going to keep coming and coming and coming until either your heads decorate their tents or their cursed corpses cover the landscape!”
The God in the Moon Page 6