The God in the Moon

by Richard A. Knaak

  Thankfully, the area ahead opened up, and a vast, regal estate situated within the city center filled his gaze. Even though it had only been a few scant months since he had last seen the palace, Nermesa eyed the sight with tremendous pleasure. The spiked wall and the sculpted grove within were, at this point, as welcome to him as his own home.

  Nermesa suddenly noticed that there was a welcoming committee at the gates of the palace. A dozen riders wearing the garb of the Black Dragons sat at attention, eyes on the approaching column.

  General Pallantides, looking as neat and orderly as always despite the odd hour of Nermesa’s arrival, sat at the forefront. He cocked his head when he saw who led the arrivals.

  “Welcome back, young Klandes,” the king’s commander calmly said. “You’ve made good time in your return.”

  “I’m glad to be back, General.”

  Pallantides peered behind him and, without preamble, asked, “The first wagon?”

  He meant Khatak. “Yes, General. All the prisoners are secured there.”

  “Any trouble on the way?”

  Memories of Quentus and the others suddenly sought to overwhelm Nermesa. Fighting down his bitterness, he managed to reply politely, “There was some, but nothing successful.”

  Yet, the skilled Pallantides evidently read some of his grief. “We shall speak of these things later,” he said, his tone more somber. “Once the villain is dealt with and you and your men have had an opportunity to rest.”

  Now that he was back home, and Khatak was all but in the hands of the most trusted officer in the kingdom, Nermesa’s exhaustion finally caught up with him. “I—we’d be very grateful for that, General.”

  Pallantides summoned one of the Black Dragons to him. “Edric, take charge of the prisoner wagon and see to it that it’s taken directly to the Iron Tower. You know the preparations I’ve demanded of them for our special guest. Make certain that everything is as it should be.”

  “Aye.” The brawny Edric, followed by three other Dragons, headed back to where Khatak and the others were held.

  “You came during the night,” Pallantides commented to Nermesa. “Others would have chosen the high day, when the crowds were fullest and the opportunity for glory greatest.”

  “I thought—”

  “You thought correctly, Nermesa. Such would have been the inclination of ambitious nobles, not a true servant of the realm.” The stern face softened some. “We underestimated you. I speak of your father, myself, and others. I already know that Boronius has had words with you on this matter. I can only say that someone I respected almost as much as the king asked of me a favor, and I granted it . . . but I freely admit now that I’m glad it went awry. You are a natural soldier, a natural commander, Nermesa . . . and Aquilonia is always in need of such.”

  Nermesa was glad that the gloom hid his no-doubt-reddening cheeks. “I am honored by what you say.”

  “We’ll speak more tomorrow. You should dismiss the men and sleep this coming day in your own home.” Suddenly, Pallantides’ gaze went past him. “Your man . . .”

  “The—the troubles I spoke of earlier.”

  The commander of the Black Dragons frowned. “I see. Go to your family, Nermesa. That would be best.”

  With that, General Pallantides veered off to the palace, the other Black Dragons following close. Nermesa watched the famed soldier vanish into the dimness, then glanced over his shoulder.

  The remaining Dragons already had the wagon out and were guiding it away from the area of the palace. The Iron Tower loomed close. The trek would not be a long one. Before the hour was ended, Khatak would find himself a resident of the fabled prison.

  And perhaps then, Nermesa could indeed rest.

  HIS FAMILY DID not know of his arrival, and he forbade the servant who came to the door from telling them. Nermesa headed directly for his room, which he found exactly as he had left it. Despite the grime of the long journey, the young Klandes simply dropped his armor and garments on the white marble floor and tossed himself onto the opulent, silk-sheeted bed. His head had scarcely hit the down-filled pillows before Nermesa fell fast asleep.

  He awoke to bright sunlight and the excited chatter of voices, one of which he recognized as his mother’s. A moment later, Callista burst in, looking as if the Picts had just poured over the walls.

  “Praise Mitra, you’re awake at last, my son!” She flew to the bed and hugged him tightly. Nermesa returned the hug, momentarily forgetting all that had happened since he had last left the Klandes residence.

  “When Simonio told me you were back, I thought it was some cruel joke, but there you were in your bed!” She pulled back, giving him a stern expression. “You should have had us roused from our beds! How could you torture your mother so?”

  “The boy needed sleep,” came his father’s voice from the hallway. Bolontes stepped in and, as he did, his voice all but trembled. “Still . . . it would have been nice to know.”

  Nermesa sat up. “I’m sorry. All I could think of was wanting to go to my bed.”

  “Understandable, lad.” The patriarch frowned. “When we discovered Quentus was not with you, I had someone ask about it.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry for the loss of a good man, Nermesa.”

  The admission stirred up the terrible memories again. “I’m sorry for the loss of a brother . . .”

  “Yes, he was like that to you. I take blame for his death. I sent him after you—”

  “No.” Nermesa would have none of that. Any animosity toward his father in that regard had quickly faded. Quentus had very much desired to follow his master and friend no matter what the danger. If Bolontes had not suggested it, Quentus no doubt would have. “He did what he wanted to, and I was glad for his company. There’s no one to blame for his death but that brigand and his monstrous servant.”

  “Well, you’ve got the one,” reminded his father, trying to raise Nermesa’s spirits. “Word is everywhere! Nermesa Klandes is spoken of throughout the city! Nay! Likely throughout most of Aquilonia, by now!”

  “I’m just happy that you’re alive,” Nermesa’s mother added. Her fingers stroked a scar. “My poor child!”

  “I’m all right. I truly am.” Something suddenly occurred to him. “Has there been any word for me?”

  Bolontes straightened. “As a matter of fact, there’s been several. Mostly from friends and associates—”

  “And Orena, of course!” interjected Callista.

  “—but you mean something official,” the elder Klandes continued. From his robes, Bolontes produced a small, waxed parchment. “This arrived but an hour ago and bears the seal of the king.”

  “The king?” Nermesa all but leapt from the bed. Fortunately, in his weariness, he had left on a simple tunic, else he would have made quite the spectacle before his parents. With a smile, Bolontes handed the sealed letter to his son.

  Nermesa cracked the seal and read.

  To his amazement, it was written by King Conan himself. That what some considered a barbarian could write in such fine script amazed even Nermesa, devoutly loyal to him.

  Nermesa, son of Bolontes of House Klandes, will come to the palace to be honored for the capture of Khatak, the bandit. The family and friends of Nermesa will also come. The time will be three days from this letter at the second hour past midday.

  Well struck, warrior.

  It was simply signed Conan, King of Aquilonia.

  Knowing what he did about his monarch, the sparse, straightforward speech in the letter did not surprise Nermesa in the least. His hand shook as he reread the contents. Boronius had prepared him for just this event, but still it struck Nermesa to his very core.

  I’ll be honored by the king!

  “What does it say that stirs you so, my son?” Callista asked.

  He told them. His mother clasped her hands together and looked so very proud. His father was more cautious, but, after a moment, Bolontes also smiled.

  “It is a great thing to see my so
n honored,” he said. “And better by this man than Namedides.”

  The statement meant much to Nermesa. He had worried that his parents, especially his father, just might not wish to be there.

  “We shall have to tell Orena,” his mother went on, suddenly summoning a dark cloud into the situation. “She would want to be there, son.”

  As she was his betrothed, Nermesa could not deny the suggestion. Perhaps things would be different, though. Perhaps when he and Orena met again, the trials he had been through would make their reunion a loving one.

  Perhaps . . .

  IN THE CAVE deep in the Pictish wilderness, the hooded figure waited patiently by the fire. Occasionally, a slim hand would reach out and toss certain powders into the flames, causing the latter to erupt briefly. A hiss would arise from the fire and tendrils of red smoke would dance.

  The effects would last but seconds, yet there were still enough to be significant to the form. The portents were not good, yet, there was still hope. He had not returned. So long as that was the case, the chance of success existed.

  The hood shifted toward the entrance. There, a fearful bandit clad in a stained silken shirt and pants—loot stripped from the corpse of a long-dead merchant—stood waiting. Like many of those in the band, he had some trace of Pict blood in him, in this case revealed most by his blunt nose and the shape of his wary eyes. He bowed low as he entered. In his hands, he carried a bowl filled with a dark, crimson liquid.

  “The others,” the newcomer anxiously growled. “They get nervous! Ask questions! Want to know one thing! Has Gullah looked down on Khatak without favor?”

  The one to whom he spoke did not reply, instead reaching for the bowl. Hardly hiding his growing irritation, the robber handed it over. The hooded form ignored him after that.

  With a cautious glance outside, the bandit pressed the point. “They say that Khatak is in the stronghold of the Cimmerian devil who rules these pale Aquilonians! The Picts speak of the Cimmerian as a spirit who walks among men and cannot be slain! If Khatak is his prisoner—”

  At this, the shrouded figure vehemently hissed. One hand slipped to the powders and, with catlike reflexes and swiftness, tossed a pinch at the questioner.

  He tried to duck away, but failed. As the white substance hit his face—and his eyes—the shaggy-haired bandit shrieked. “Aaaiee! My eyes! They burn like red embers!”

  He stumbled to his knees, searching frantically somewhere for water. His wild search led him back toward the cave mouth . . . just as a hulking, shadowed form entered.

  Even through tearful eyes, the brigand could see enough to grow panicked. He rolled away from the entrance, but the giant stooped down and seized him by the throat. The brigand looked into a face out of nightmare . . . and promptly fainted.

  A muffled sound erupted from the watcher by the fire. The shadowy giant looked up, then silently took the robber and dragged him outside, where he would eventually wake up and flee to his brethren, telling them of his narrow escape from the god. It would keep the rabble under control for a while longer, or so the hooded figure thought.

  The shaggy, shadowed form returned. He sat in the darkened corner, growling.

  Another hiss escaped the watcher by the fire. So, that was it, then. Failure. Something else would have to be done. The Aquilonian pig would have to live up to his promise or suffer the consequences. One way or another, Khatak would be freed.

  Then there was the warrior, the child-faced knight who had the luck of the spirits with him. His luck would have to be turned. He would have to be brought back to the land somehow and made to suffer horribly so that the tribes would understand his weakness, the weakness of all the invaders.

  But first . . . first there was the fort with which to deal.

  First . . . there was Scanaga.

  10

  RATHER THAN HAVE Orena visit his home—and, thus, have their uncertain reunion take place under the gazes of his parents—Nermesa chose to meet his betrothed in her own abode. It was not that he expected anything wrong to happen, but it would be difficult enough to speak with Orena without having to be concerned with other ears.

  Like Klandes, Lenaro had an elegant residence in Tarantia within sight of the palace. It followed the standard design of the mighty Houses—fluted columns at the entrance, high marble steps, the symbol of the House carved above, and the vaulted roofs. A great white gate surrounded the Lenaro mansion and two mighty oaks, supposedly as old as the bloodline itself, flanked the stone serpentine entranceway. Sentries in the livery of Lenaro—white with silver lining—stood guard at the wrought-iron gates. Banners with the Lenaro emblem—two crossed blades with a four-point crown above them on a field of white—flew in the light breeze. The images were silver, and the crown represented the fact that Orena’s House could also claim Aquilonian kings in its blood.

  Arriving near the steps, Nermesa handed his mount over to a waiting servant. As the noble strode up, the doors swung open. It was not, however, Morannus who greeted him, as Nermesa had expected. For a moment, he thought that Orena had somehow darkened her hair, making it auburn, then realized that this woman was slightly shorter and also younger. Her features were softer, too.

  Those features lit up at sight of him. “Nermesa! You’ve come!”

  “Telaria?” The woman before him was not the boyish figure he had last seen. Nermesa recalculated the time he had been gone and marveled at the sudden change in Orena’s sister. “You surprised me. You are looking grown-up!”

  She flushed, then quickly urged him inside. “Morannus was to answer the door, but I wanted to greet you! I won’t get much chance once you’re with Orena.”

  He joined her. As she shut the door, Nermesa said, “Well, I appreciate the trouble. It’s very good to see you, too.”

  Up close, he could see even more differences, most of them subtle but combining to create a transformation Nermesa saw would someday soon enable Telaria to rival her sister in beauty . . . if not surpass her. Her auburn hair, which was, for one of the few times that he could recall, unbound, flowed around her face and cascaded below her shoulders. Telaria’s dress—which to Nermesa’s eyes was not much more elaborate than that of the servants—clung to her in a pleasing fashion . . .

  “Good morning to you, Master Nermesa,” rumbled Morannus’s voice. “It is a pleasure to have you back. All Tarantia speaks of you and your feat.”

  The noble quickly looked from Telaria to the Gunderman. A sense of guilt pervaded Nermesa, although he had not truly done anything wrong.

  “Hello, Morannus. Is your mistress about? She should be expecting me.”

  “Aye, she is, my lord. She awaits you out on the terrace.”

  “I can guide you there,” Telaria immediately offered.

  The Gunderman shook his head. “My orders are to take charge of Master Nermesa, my lady. Your sister wished to remind you that you have tasks to complete.”

  The animation in Telaria’s face utterly vanished. She bowed her head slightly. “She is correct, of course.” Without looking up, Telaria said, “It was good to see you, Nermesa. If you will excuse me?”

  “It was my treat. You’ll be at the ceremony?”

  Now, the auburn-haired woman looked at him. “No,” she said with a frown. “I’m unable to come.”

  Turning, Telaria all but scurried from the hall.

  Morannus stood patiently by a bust of Orena positioned on a pedestal. “If you would follow me, Master Nermesa?”

  A bit disgruntled, the noble nodded. Morannus marched him through the long, main corridor bisecting the Lenaro residence. Friezes of the lords and ladies of the past lined the wall, each image bordered by silver. Unlike the images in his own home or of those of many of his friends, Lenaro’s were all stark white marble. If not for the silver borders, the entire hall would been most blinding, especially with the sun now shining through the windows. It was a very sterile view, and yet somehow it fit its present mistress perfectly.

  Nermesa fought
back a frown. His attitude toward Orena was unbefitting one who was to be her husband. This was a time to begin anew, for the two of them to prepare for the future. The honor he was to receive raised Nermesa to a new level among his peers. Much more would be expected of him from here on, including in his personal life.

  As they stepped out onto the terrace, Morannus announced, “My lady Orena, Master Nermesa is here.”

  She was draped across a small couch set near the stone rail running along the boundary of the terrace. At that moment, Nermesa truly thought that he had wronged his betrothed, for the vision she presented was so striking that he could see why other nobles envied his position. Orena’s hair had been artfully sculpted around her face, then bound toward the back. A silver band decorated her like a crown. Her half-lidded gaze somehow magnified the effect of her eyes. She wore a slight smile and had touched up her lips—not to mention her cheeks and eyelids—with skillful use of colors accenting her alabaster flesh. The gown in which Orena had clad herself was a silken wisp that managed to balance itself perfectly between modesty and allure.

  Sitting up, Orena gracefully stretched forth her hand, and murmured, “My love, come to me.”

  He did without hesitation. Morannus vanished back into the house.

  As he started to sit, her eyes shifted to the sword sheathed at his side. Even though he was home, Nermesa continued to wear the weapon. He did not know why, for in Tarantia he was not on duty, but the sword’s presence comforted him.

  “Can we not have that removed for the moment, my love?”

  Hiding his reluctance, Nermesa undid the sheath and placed the sword behind his side of the couch. Lady Orena nodded satisfaction, then again gave him her hand.