“Welcome back, cousin!” The elder Klandes’ grin was not as it had once been, even Caltero’s mood dampened by events of late. “You are a sight for sore eyes!”
“It’s good to see you again,” returned Nermesa, dismounting. “I’d expected the general to—”
“The Boar’s busy planning,” Caltero interjected just a bit louder than his cousin appreciated. “Now that you’re here, the grand assault can get under way!” He indicated Nermesa’s men. “If you’ll put one of your officers in charge, the general wants you to come right in!”
Following Caltero’s suggestion, Nermesa turned over the column to a knight far more experienced than he and followed his cousin to Boronius’s headquarters. The sense of unease swelled even though all looked as it should.
The sentries saluted Nermesa sharply. He noted that they seemed more interested in their duties than he had ever noticed during his previous tour. It was almost as if they guarded something very precious within.
Only when the door was shut behind and Caltero had led him into the back room did Nermesa see that what they protected was the truth concerning General Boronius.
The Boar lay in his bed, looking as if he had been unfortunate enough to have crossed paths with a pack of his namesakes. His body was bruised and broken. One eye was puffed up so much that the general could not possibly have seen with it—had he been at all conscious, that is. From his rasping breath and his stillness, Nermesa doubted that Boronius had been awake for some time. More important, he wondered if the frontier commander would ever wake again.
“What—what—”
“Keep your voice down,” Caltero urged. “There are few who know . . . at least, so we hope.”
In a whisper, Nermesa blurted, “No word of this has reached the palace! I’m sure of it!”
“There wouldn’t have been time . . . even if someone had sent word yet. This happened but two days ago. The Boar wasn’t even out in the forest! He was riding—with guards accompanying him yet—through one of the settlements just beyond the east of Scanaga. You rode through it yourself on the way here.”
Nermesa recalled the villages again. They had seemed safe enough.
“The Boar always likes to ride out among the locals, show them that he’s confident and in command. He even likes to share an ale or some local wine with them, sometimes.”
“Then . . . what happened?”
The last of Caltero’s once-carefree attitude faded into a deep frown. “Night fell, and there was no sign of his party. Seven men not far from Scanaga. I sent out a search party. They found what was left.”
Nermesa steeled himself. “Tell me.”
“It wasn’t pretty. The search party discovered them in the small stretch of forest between Scanaga’s gates and the nearest of the lesser settlements. The Boar and his guards were scattered over the area as if a great gust of wind had picked them up bodily, then tossed them about like so many leaves! Their horses were gone, too. Three of the bodies had Pict arrows in them, but the others, including the old man himself, looked as if some monstrous beast had torn them apart! Only Boronius and one other man still lived—if you can call this living. The other poor soul perished from his wounds before the rescuers could bring the pair back, though.”
“Horrible . . .” gasped the younger cousin.
“The search party was wise enough to keep the entire situation quiet, even bringing back the bodies in secrecy,” concluded the other knight. “If news got out about the Boar’s condition, the locals would panic, and the damned savages would only increase their attacks.”
“Who’s in command?”
Caltero sighed. “That would be me. Not my first choice.” He prodded Nermesa in the breastplate. “And you, dear cousin, would be second now.”
“Me?” Nermesa blinked. “But there are others—”
“The territorial judge has decided otherwise and, yes, Flavian has that authority thanks to provisions by the throne.”
“What do we do, then?”
The senior knight shrugged. “I was rather hoping that you’d tell me.”
Nermesa had been all too willing to return as General Pallantides had requested and had even been honored by the command he had been given, but this was far more authority than someone of his experience should be wielding. Worse, he was beginning to see that Caltero, someone he had counted on for guidance, truly was not cut out for his own role.
And if the Picts discovered the truth concerning the Aquilonian military’s current leadership, they would indeed likely soon assault Scanaga itself. Small wonder that Caltero had tried to keep Boronius’s condition a secret from the settlements. That would have only further incited the natives to attack.
Nermesa tried to think. “I was told Khatak’s band is part of this uprising.”
“Part of it? They’re leading it. Someone’s taken over for him, but the friendlies haven’t been able to tell us just who. When I tried to ask, they just mutter that Gullah may be watching them and scamper away.”
“But Khatak’s brigands and their new leader are the key to this. We need to track them down. Where were they last seen?”
Caltero seemed to regain some of his focus. He took Nermesa by the arm. “The Boar’s got some good maps still on his table. Let’s leave him be, and I’ll show you.”
Shutting the door to Boronius’s personal quarters, they went to study the maps. Fortunately, the general was the sort of man who insisted on constantly updated charts. There were notations everywhere, including all previous reports of appearances by the brigands. Caltero pointed at one two days northwest, near a settlement whose name was marked out.
“Don’t bother,” his cousin murmured. “They left nothing of the place . . . not even the settlers.”
Nermesa grimaced. So many lives lost for no good reason. Slowly, his anxiety gave way to anger.
“What about—”
They were interrupted by banging on the door. The cousins glanced at one another. Caltero finally called out, “Who is it?”
“It’s Konstantin, sir! With an urgent scouting report for the general!”
Nermesa’s cousin exhaled in relief. “Konstantin knows,” he whispered. “We can let him come inside.” To the man beyond the door, Caltero called out, “Enter!”
A knight with red hair and beard slipped past the door, shutting it quickly behind him. He eyed Nermesa with some concern.
“My cousin,” Caltero pointedly said. “Nermesa.”
Konstantin’s gaze widened noticeably. “Ah! Mitra be praised! I was gone when you were here last. It’s good to have you back, Nermesa. A capable head and arm are sorely needed now!”
“You’ve news?” Caltero pressed.
“Aye! The Picts are on the move! They’re heading in the direction of Anascaw!”
Nermesa stared at Caltero. “Anascaw’s not that far from us! We must move to meet the Picts there!”
“Impossible,” returned the elder Klandes. “It’s too late! By the time enough men are ready and armed, the settlement will be burned to the ground, and the Picts will be gone again. All we’ll do is run around through the woods chasing ghosts and maybe getting trapped like dear departed General Octavio.” He shook his head. “Would that we could help Anascaw, but we can’t . . .”
Unwilling simply to accept that, Nermesa looked to Konstantin. “If a force could leave now, would it make it in time?”
“Aye . . . I think it could.”
“It can’t be done,” Caltero insisted. “We’re better off waiting for another chance—”
Despite his cousin’s reluctance, Nermesa pressed. “My column just arrived! They’ll still be all but packed! It’s the only chance!”
Konstantin eagerly nodded. Caltero glanced from one to the other, unable, it seemed, to make a command decision.
Nermesa grew frustrated with his cousin. To Konstantin, he ordered, “Gather up whatever other men can be available in five minutes! I’ll reorganize the column! Hurry!”
/> The third knight ran out to obey. Nermesa seized a chart of the area in question and ran out without regard to Caltero. They could argue about this later. There were lives in danger.
He only prayed that his column would indeed arrive in time . . .
KONSTANTIN GUIDED THE way. In addition to Nermesa’s men, the other knight had managed to gather another fifty. The column presented an imposing sight, but Nermesa rode well aware that the Picts had a good number of warriors of their own and had likely not marched a long way prior, as those who had followed him to Scanaga had. Fortunately, word of the attack seemed to have spurred Nermesa’s original complement on. They seemed as eager as he to push back the savages.
If that could be done.
Caltero remained in Scanaga. Nermesa had come to the unhappy conclusion that his cousin, however capable as a subordinate officer, was not yet prepared for the role of commander of the west. Nermesa prayed that General Boronius would somehow recover and recover soon.
A pair of scouts rode up to meet him. “Swarm o’ Picts ahead, my lord!” spouted the seniormost. “Back beyond that wooded ridge, about a mile!”
“We did it! We caught up! We’re almost between them and Anascaw!” Konstantin declared.
Nermesa glanced at the chart. “If we follow this course here, will it get us to the top of this ridge before they do?”
“Aye, and grant us the advantage . . . but we’ll have to move fast to do that.”
“Then, we’ll move fast.” Nermesa would have been more than willing to let Konstantin, more familiar with the territory, take command, but the redheaded knight, a strict follower of rules, was also aware of Flavian’s edict granting Nermesa seniority despite his lack of years. Concerned with saving the settlers, Nermesa did not push on the subject, only silently praying to Mitra to guide his decisions.
Each passing moment, Bolontes’ son expected to see a wave of Picts rushing down upon them, but the column continued to climb upward without incident. The scouts came back twice to report on the enemy’s position and with the good news also came the bad.
“The ridge and its advantage’ll be ours,” the chief scout reported. Rubbing his chin, he reluctantly added, “You wanted a number on the savages . . .”
“And?”
“We’ve pretty much agreed they have twice as many as us, maybe a bit more even . . .”
“So many?” growled Konstantin. “That’s not possible, save for some of the biggest tribes! Are you certain?”
“Aye! Lots o’ different feathers and furs and such! Small tribes like Fox, but all addin’ up to a mean horde.”
The other knight eyed Nermesa. “What should we do?”
“What we intended to do.”
The Aquilonians moved up into position and, as they did, Nermesa got his first good look at the Picts. They flowed through the forest like a dark, sinister flood, heading relentlessly in the direction of Anascaw and other nearby settlements. Nermesa had no doubt that they knew of the soldiers’ presence and eagerly anticipated the bloodshed.
Konstantin peered at the oncoming force. “At this rate, they’ll be upon us in minutes.”
“We must be ready for them.”
Archers hurried into position. Men-at-arms readied swords. The banner of King Conan flew proudly before the assembled soldiers.
As they neared, the Picts coalesced into individual warriors with tattooed bodies and wide, screaming mouths filled with sharp, filed teeth. They brandished axes, spears, and swords, and many wore dented and stained breastplates, helmets . . . and necklaces made of human ears of a much lighter hue than those of any of the warriors.
Nermesa raised his sword. He would not allow them to add more such grisly souvenirs to their collection.
“Sound the horns!” General Boronius should have been leading this attack. Caltero should have been leading this attack. Even Konstantin. Almost anyone other than Nermesa . . . and yet, circumstance demanded it of him now.
Father, Mother . . . Mitra . . . pray that I have not just foolishly led us all to our deaths . . .
The Picts came into range.
He slashed the blade downward.
A score of archers unleashed a volley. Hissing filled the air and, but a few scant seconds later, the first line of Picts virtually dropped as one.
As the archers readied their bows, a second line behind them sent a volley at the enemy. It hit the Pict lines with only half the force of the initial one, the natives now better aware what they faced.
“They’re closing the gap,” Konstantin muttered.
Worse, from seemingly nowhere a flight of arrows dropped upon the Aquilonians. Several soldiers cried out. At least half a dozen men in Nermesa’s range of view collapsed dead. Several more sprawled injured.
“One more volley!” he commanded. “Ready everyone for the charge!”
The archers unleashed their third assault. Perhaps three or four Picts perished.
It was time. Nermesa raised his sword again. As he slashed, one of the men-at-arms blew loud and long on the horn.
Roaring, the Aquilonians charged down on their foe. Their shields formed a long wall upon which spears and arrows bounced. Behind the first row of men came a second and a third. Behind those and riding at a slow pace so as not to trample their comrades on foot came Nermesa and the mounted contingent.
The Picts eagerly ran to meet the line. The two forces were only seconds from collision.
“Now!” shouted Nermesa.
As the horn sounded once more, the foot soldiers spread to each side. Those in the second rank joined the first, expanding both flanks so that the new line stretched farther than that of the Picts. The third rank replaced the second, leaving a great hole in the center of the Aquilonian advance.
And through it charged the knights and mounted men-at-arms.
The unorthodox charge caught the Picts flat-footed. Nermesa, Konstantin, and the rest barreled into the warriors, trampling several in the first moment. Lances pinioned Picts through the chest, and swords cleaved skulls in two.
A man-at-arms fell, his face ravaged by an expertly tossed ax. The clash of weapons resounded, and screams constantly cut through the air. Nermesa’s mounted fighters continued to push forward, bisecting the enemy horde. In their wake came what had been the third line. They now swarmed in to fill the space.
Shields kept tight together, the Aquilonians pressed. Men were lost, but far more Picts perished.
Nermesa cut open the chest of a foe, then slashed another in the arm. He glanced left and right and saw that those who followed him were managing to do as he had commanded. He measured the still-growing length of each flank, then the positioning. The now-longer Aquilonian lines had taken on a shape like an upturned horseshoe . . . with the Picts caught within.
Nermesa hoped to separate the natives into two trapped groups using his mounted force to do that dividing. The war leaders of the Picts must surely have recognized that by now, though, for the riders were being pressured more and more. The main Pict attack now centered on Nermesa and those nearest. Even as he watched, two knights were seized from their saddles and taken down out of sight. The savage, gleeful cries of the Picts were evidence enough of the men’s horrific fates. Elsewhere, the steed of a mounted man-at-arms suddenly tumbled, a spear through its chest. The Aquilonian soldier was tossed, whether to perish because of the fall or an ax in his chest, Nermesa had no chance to discover.
A Pict with the skin of a fox draping his shaved skull leapt on Nermesa. As the two fought, the horse—its reins constantly tugged on—began turning in a mad circle.
The painted face of his foe filled Nermesa’s view. The Pict grinned, his panting breath full of the stench of one who was a ritual cannibal. The monstrous figure swung at the knight with an ax, Nermesa barely deflecting the blow with his armored wrist.
“Nermesa!” shouted Konstantin, trying to come to his aid. Unfortunately, a pair of Picts grabbed at the other fighter’s legs, as if they hoped to tear him in ha
lf. Konstantin slashed at one, cutting him across the face, but the other avoided his swings.
As for Nermesa’s foe, a sudden transformation overtook his expression. Uncertainty spread like the plague over his face. The Pict faltered.
Nermesa took immediate advantage. He struck his foe hard in the chin with his sword hand, using the hilt for added strength.
Arms flailing, the tattooed warrior slipped from Nermesa’s horse. One hand knocked the Aquilonian’s helmet off.
The Pict fell under the horse’s hooves and was trampled before he could even cry out.
At first unaware of this, Nermesa slashed furiously at where he had last seen the native. When he finally caught a glimpse of the corpse, the knight immediately looked up again, certain that another Pict was ready to pounce. Instead, Nermesa discovered himself oddly devoid of adversaries.
In fact, the Picts seemed to be suddenly going out of their way to avoid him. He caught a few furtive glances and saw one warrior make a sign that reminded him of the ones he had seen the friendlies in the fort use to ward off evil.
Nermesa gritted his teeth and charged the nearest. To his astonishment, the fearsome figure at first simply stared at him, only belatedly attempting any defense. Nermesa easily avoided the halfhearted swing, his momentum such that when he thrust, the force of the blow sent blood splattering over his face and armor and his sword strike lifted the Pict’s dying body several inches above the ground.
Nermesa twisted the blade, letting the dead warrior drop. Blood streamed down the weapon, dribbling onto his hand.
Gazing around, he was shocked to discover that the gap between him and the Picts had grown greater. More astounding, now he realized that they were clearly retreating from his presence. When Nermesa tried to ride after them, the gap only flowed farther ahead. The Picts would have nothing of him.
Konstantin rode up next to Nermesa, the red-maned fighter sharing in his disbelief. However, where Nermesa’s expression was grim, Konstantin’s held wonder and hope.
“They fear you, Nermesa! They actually fear you!”
The God in the Moon Page 19