The God in the Moon

by Richard A. Knaak

  Khatak’s expression was terrible to behold. He gazed at Nermesa from under his shaggy brow, and the crooked smile had stretched long and narrow. There was no humor in that smile, though. The bandit did not blink, his eyes boring into the one who had brought him here.

  “Son of the lion, Nermesa of Klandes . . . I will devour you. I will find your throat in the dark of night and rip it out. Your heart I will sacrifice to the Four Brothers of the Night and Gullah, The Hairy One Who Lives in the Moon! Yes . . . especially, Gullah . . .”

  To his credit, Nermesa steeled himself against Khatak’s words, simply replying, “A hard thing to do without your head.”

  Khatak laughed, the sound echoing in the Aquilonian’s ears long after he had left the jail.

  Growing more restless with each day that Khatak remained nearby, Nermesa finally requested of General Boronius some mission that would take him from Scanaga, at least for a short while. With the Picts unusually quiet and Khatak’s band nowhere to be found, the Boar returned him to the supply caravans. However, this time, Nermesa was in command, something unusual for one so recently made a knight. As such, Nermesa was able to pick his own men, and so Quentus rode with him.

  They made two journeys, both uneventful save for a bit of rain, but being out in the forest did as Nermesa hoped. His nerves calmed, and he began to recall just why he had wanted to serve his home and his king.

  The second trek was of the most interest, concerning bringing goods to one of the “friendly” tribes paid off by Aquilonia. For the first time, Nermesa faced Picts who smiled humbly—at least in his presence—and who offered food and drink, not bloodshed. Pictish huts came in more than one form, but were generally tall, rounded, and made from frames and skins. Most of their race were far shorter than he, and his height, above average for his own kind, made Nermesa a marvel to some of the natives. The women seemed especially fascinated, giggling whenever he looked their way and finding reasons, however feeble, to be in his path.

  Few Picts spoke much more than broken Aquilonian, so an interpreter was required. Riding with Nermesa’s band was a Pict named Kyonag, whose right hand had, in his youth, been mangled by a bear. Kyonag had once been of the Fox Tribe, but his injury made him unable to hunt, a terrible thing for one of his race. He had early on come willingly to Scanaga, for there he at least had a use to someone . . . even if it was invaders.

  Nermesa and Kyonag met the chieftain of the tribe in the circular area in the middle of the village, the area where gatherings and ceremonies took place. The totem of this particular village—the owl—perched high overhead. The chieftain and all the males wore feathers from the bird in their hair, a common practice among other Pict tribes named after avians.

  General Boronius had warned Nermesa to act with caution even while with this “friendly” tribe, but the Owl people all but fell over themselves to please him. He received little disagreement with anything he passed along from Scanaga, the chief’s head bobbing up and down continuously throughout the conversation. Nermesa was constantly offered Pict delicacies—salted squirrel, river fish roasted over the fire, and such—and various gifts, including a knife with a bone handle that Kyonag, with a grin, assured him had come from an elk, not a human.

  The Picts offered Nermesa one of their huts in which to sleep, and he gathered from the expression of the young female standing near it, she was included in the offer. Nermesa politely declined, and when he had looked at the woman, another’s face—Khati’s—had briefly overlapped it. Shaking off such thoughts, the knight returned to his men and settled down.

  The Owl people came out in force to bid his troop farewell, chanting as Nermesa passed. He finally had to ask Kyonag if this was typical.

  “Is you,” the tame Pict declared, grinning. Although long a resident of the fort area, his teeth were as pointed as those of any of his wild cousins. “The totem of the lion defeated the totem of the Gullah, Khatak’s totem! All were amazed! Khatak had god himself! All the People of the Forest know you fought both and won!”

  His explanation only opened the door to more questions, but Nermesa at least understood one thing. His capture of the legendary brigand was known to the Picts, and many thought Nermesa a man touched by the lion spirit—both part of his House emblem and that of King Conan.

  But what Kyonag had said about Khatak confused him. Nermesa had heard the name Gullah mentioned before, but none among the soldiers understood exactly what creature or god it was supposed to be. A monstrous, hairy man who, as the bandit chieftain described him, lived in the Moon. Nermesa recalled the huge bandit who had attacked him and wondered if he masqueraded as the supposed deity for Khatak. The knight could recall little about him save that he had worn furs that stank and been tremendously powerful, but, certainly he had been no horrific god. Mitra was the only true god in the world.

  But if that were the case, Mitra was a more capricious god than Nermesa supposed. Upon his return to Scanaga, the young Klandes was met by his cousin, who immediately announced that Tarantia had finally sent word about the brigand’s fate.

  “He and the others, including the traitors, are to be marched off tomorrow to the capital! The Boar wants to see you immediately about it!”

  “Me? Why?”

  “That’s for him to say, cousin!”

  Quentus followed him as far as the outer door. “I’ll be here in case you need me for anything.”

  Nermesa nodded, although he knew as well as Quentus did that there was nothing the man-at-arms could do even if something did happen. Besides, what danger could there be in the general’s quarters?

  “Klandes,” Boronius greeted him. Standing, the Boar came around and clasped Nermesa’s hand. Ignoring the latter’s startled look, the general asked, “All went well with the Owls? They give any trouble?”

  “None, General.”

  “Well, then, you can fill me in on the mundane details after we talk over why I wanted you to come to see me the moment you returned. Sit!”

  After Nermesa had done so, Boronius returned to his side of the table. However, he himself did not sit, instead lifting up a piece of waxed parchment that, from what Nermesa could see of the cracked seal, contained some message from the capital.

  “From Pallantides himself. I’ll tell you right away that the first part is congratulations to us—you, especially—for the capture. The whole palace is talking about it! Word’s racing through Tarantia and beyond like wildfire.”

  Feeling his face redden, Nermesa muttered, “My part in it was small, General. It—”

  “Yes, yes! We’ve been through all that, Klandes! What’s important is what follows the congratulations. They want that bastard marched off as soon as possible . . . and good riddance, I say! Pallantides has convinced the king that Khatak must be made an example in front of the people in Tarantia. The questioning’s only part of it, though a vital one. Khatak knows how the Picts think and work. He can tell us much, with the proper . . . encouragement.”

  “As you suggested.”

  “Yes. Once that’s done, it’ll be the chopping block for him. Word of his execution will spread all the better from Tarantia! It’ll reach the right ears in every surrounding kingdom! Pallantides thinks it’ll demoralize a few folks with intentions of causing trouble elsewhere. Khatak’s been making Aquilonia look bad for too long and fools like Stygia, Zingara, and even blasted Nemedia always take that as a sign we’re ripe for deviltry.”

  Mention of Nemedia in particular made Nermesa tense. The story of Xaltotun resurfaced in his memories. General Pallantides had the right of it; make the fate of Khatak known to all and Aquilonia’s enemies would think twice about causing her trouble. The quiet of the Picts was a prime example.

  “He should be sent with all haste, then,” Nermesa stated.

  “Quite right. I know you can be trusted to see he’s no trouble on the way.”

  Nermesa almost jumped out of his seat. “Me? What about General Octavio or Caltero or—”

  The Boar sh
ook his head solemnly. “Octavio’s out in the wilderness again. This peaceful attitude of the Picts could shift at any moment, and we need to be watching, especially when we send Khatak on. Caltero’s a good man, but Tarantia wants you, specifically.”

  “But why?”

  “That’s the last part of this letter.” Boronius waved the parchment. “You’re to be honored by the king himself, Klandes. You’re to be presented to the people as a hero of the Westermarck, a way of promoting success out here, not disaster.”

  Tarantia . . . Nermesa already missed the city, but to go back meant confronting unsettled matters, such as Orena. Worse, although he was grateful that the king wished to congratulate him for his efforts—something he had dreamed of since first desiring to join the military—Nermesa was not one for public spectacles. Even the granting of the medal by the territorial judge had been too much.

  “I see that look, Klandes. You’re going to go to Tarantia and represent all that’s right out here and get the accolades you deserve in the process! That’s an order, lad!”

  There was no arguing with Boronius. Nermesa nodded.

  “Good!” The Boar sat on the edge of the table, which creaked ominously under his immense mass. “Now, there’s just one more thing to discuss. That’s Khatak himself.”

  Nermesa understood immediately. “You think he might try to escape along the way?”

  “Or someone’ll try to help him. It’s been too silent around that bastard. He sits there, either grinning or laughing, as if waiting. Waiting for what, though? I’ve got guards all around, and no one can get to him, but I still don’t trust the situation. There’s another traitor yet, you know that. The one who paid the men-at-arms. But, whoever he is, he can’t make a move in the fort.”

  “Outside, though,” interjected Bolontes’ son. “He might.”

  “Aye, he might. But you’ll be with a full contingent of troops, and Khatak’ll be watched day and night by different men. You got that, Klandes?”

  He did, whether he wanted to or not. Yet, despite his concerns, Nermesa no longer sought some excuse by which to escape his duty. He had no fear of escorting Khatak to Tarantia, only the clamor that would follow once he delivered the villain into Pallantides’ hands.

  “Yes, General, I do.”

  “Then, go take care of yourself . . . and steer clear of any wine with your cousin. You’ve got to be prepared to leave at first light. I won’t be happy until that bandit is dangling by his wrists in the Iron Tower.”

  Saluting, Nermesa left. True to his word, Quentus still awaited him outside.

  “What is it? Can’t be tellin’ a damned thing from your expression!”

  “We’re going back to Tarantia.”

  The man-at-arms grew agitated. “You’ve been cast out? For what? How could they do that after—”

  “Calm yourself!” interrupted Nermesa. “Just the opposite. I’m to be honored before the king himself.” He quickly detailed what Boronius had informed him.

  Quentus’s expression changed from fury to exhilaration. “Ah! Now that’s the thing! Well done, Master—well done, Nermesa! Wonderful!”

  “What’s all this?” Caltero marched up to the pair. “A celebration without me?”

  Quentus quickly filled him in. Caltero listened to all of it with an ever-widening grin. When the man-at-arms had finished, Caltero slapped his cousin hard on the back.

  “Ha! I knew some of it, Nermesa, but not all! I’m proud of you! Come! Let’s go to my quarters for a proper toasting of the hero of all Aquilonia!”

  Nermesa recalled General Boronius’s warning and declined. “I need to rest. We’ll be up well before dawn. Remember that, Quentus. You’re coming, too.”

  “Aye, you’re right! Pity not to have one drink, though,” the bearded soldier urged. “This local stuff’s grown on me. Just one wouldn’t be that bad, would it?”

  The declaration made Caltero laugh. “Well, if my cousin won’t drink to himself, let’s you and I do it for him, man! Come!”

  “Nermesa?” pleaded Quentus.

  “I’d recommend it stay one drink. It’s a long journey to the capital.”

  “One, it’ll be!” his cousin promised.

  “Aye!” swore Quentus. “One . . .”

  As they walked off, Nermesa hurried to his quarters before anyone else could slow him. He had much to think about, much to prepare. He had hardly expected to make the journey home and under such complicated circumstances.

  That was assuming that he made it home at all, of course.

  NERMESA HAD EXPECTED sleep to elude him completely, but barely minutes after he laid his head down, the young noble had already drifted off. Dreams soon infiltrated his mind, some of them pertaining to the capture of Khatak, others to the honors he would receive in Tarantia.

  One had to do with his family.

  In his dream, Nermesa was waving to the crowds as they honored his feat. Somehow, the celebration ended at the steps of his home. He then found himself standing in the high hall, his parents, Caltero, Quentus, and the servants all congratulating him. They all had goblets of wine in their hands.

  His father toasted him, their disagreements for some reason not a part of the dream. “To the future of Klandes, my pride and my son, Nermesa!”

  “To Nermesa!” the others shouted.

  “Congratulations, Nermesa . . .” said a melodious voice.

  He turned and found Khati dressed like one of the noble-women of Tarantia, her hair up and her face made in the manner of Aquilonians. She smiled, and that smile filled his gaze.

  But then her face shifted, becoming another beautiful woman whom at first he mistook for Orena. Yet, this one was dark-haired like Khati, and her features, though so very close to Nermesa’s betrothed, were softer.

  Then the face did indeed become Orena Lenaro’s. “My love,” she cooed, reaching up and stroking the side of his neck with her smooth, cool fingers. “Let me hold you tight ...”

  Her fingers stretched, becoming sinewy and moving as if with a life of their own. They encircled Nermesa’s throat, tightening. They continued to tighten until he could no longer breathe. He grasped at them, but they were wrapped around one another, intertwining.

  “Let me hold you tight, my love,” Orena repeated.

  She smiled, revealing two long, dripping fangs—

  At which point, Nermesa woke . . . and found the constriction around his throat a living nightmare.

  A hiss near his right ear was the only warning that saved him from an even more foul fate. Nermesa instinctively froze, lying as still as the dead.

  The serpent hissed again, but did not strike. The tightness around Nermesa’s throat lessened enough for him to breathe. He did so, but as minimally as possible.

  The serpent slowly unwound from him. Nermesa continued to keep motionless even after the creature had abandoned his throat. Listening carefully, the knight tried to judge its location.

  When he sensed that it had started to move away from his head, Nermesa cautiously slid his left hand to the side until he found where he had set his dagger. The occasional hiss of the serpent kept him apprised of the creature’s whereabouts.

  His fingers fumbled with the hilt.

  He felt movement, and the next hiss sounded closer again. The serpent had veered back toward him.

  With a short oath to Mitra, Nermesa twisted around, thrusting.

  The serpent gave a loud hiss, then began wriggling violently. Nermesa waited for it to bite him, but, instead, the creature suddenly went limp.

  Gasping, the Aquilonian felt his blood calm slightly. In the gloom, he made out the serpent’s body. His dagger had pierced it through the neck just below the head. Nermesa could not take credit for such a strike, though. He thanked Mitra for luck being with him.

  Voices rose around him as others became aware of something amiss. Two other knights came to his area, one carrying a lit lamp.

  “By Mitra!” the man with the lamp growled. “A rock viper! You sh
ould be dead! Be you certain you’re not bit?”

  “Their poison is strong,” added the second. “He’d not be alive right now if he had been.”

  Others gathered. With more than one lamp illuminating things, Nermesa, now standing, saw just how close he had come to death. The serpent had fangs more than an inch long, and drops of venom stained the blanket beneath them. The entire creature was over three feet in length, which made it all the more amazing that he had not noticed it slowly crawling over him until it had begun encircling his neck.

  Someone must have sounded an alarm, for Caltero abruptly appeared. Half-clad, he looked aghast at the sight.

  “Let me through! Let me through!” Nermesa’s cousin bent down by the bedside, first glancing at the younger Klandes, then taking both serpent and dagger from the bed. “A very, very close call, cousin! How did it happen?”

  Nermesa related the story as best he could. The gathered knights murmured to one another as he finished.

  “They generally don’t like to leave their burrows after dark,” commented a mustached fighter.

  “Could be it made a new burrow under the building . . .” suggested a second figure.

  Caltero called a halt to the speculations. “Wherever it came from, you know such a beast lives alone. There won’t be another. Come the morrow, someone can seek under the building and check. Likely, it was simply lost. Not the first time we’ve had such a thing happen, you know that.”

  “First time one made it all the way into our quarters,” grumbled the knight who had suggested a burrow beneath them.

  Ignoring him, the senior knight dropped the carcass back on the blanket, then wiped the dagger off there, too. “The blanket’s ruined already. Someone find him a new one. I’ll take the carcass and have it burned, cousin.” He handed Nermesa the dagger. “The Picts hear of this, they’ll truly think you protected by a powerful spirit . . .”

  The others began drifting off. The first knight who had arrived traded lamps with Nermesa, taking his unlit one away. Grateful for the continued light, Bolontes’ son finally began to calm down . . . and think.