The God in the Moon

by Richard A. Knaak

  Impossible as it was for Bolontes’ son to believe, the other knight spoke the truth.

  He then remembered Konstantin shouting his name within earshot of the foremost warriors. Word of Khatak’s capture, perhaps even of the brigand’s death at his hands—however accidental in Nermesa’s mind—had indeed filtered through to the Picts. Nermesa had proven himself stronger than the supposed favored of Gullah, a powerful thing in the minds of the superstitious natives.

  General Pallantides’ plan had worked after all, it seemed.

  Still, there were men dying and a risk of the Aquilonians failing to defeat their foe. Nermesa could hardly revel in his own seeming invulnerability while his comrades died around him.

  “Gather the rest behind me! We can’t rest until they’re driven back!”

  Konstantin waved to the other riders, who quickly re-formed the wedge. However, as Nermesa led them forward, he heard his second suddenly cry out his name.

  As if encouraged by Konstantin, the rest of the mounted fighters took it up like a war cry. “Nermesa! Nermesa!”

  He would have twisted back and ordered them to stop such foolishness . . . but then he saw that the cry was having an effect.

  The Picts were beginning to run, and it was all because of him.

  The trained soldiers immediately made use of the natives’ chaotic behavior, pushing forward in orderly but swift movements. The pincers began to close, cutting off many Picts from freedom. They fought and fought well, but their hearts were no longer in the battle.

  And they continued to do their best to steer clear of Nermesa, although that was not always possible. Most astounding, when forced to face him, they did so as if already resigned to their deaths. That made it easier for Nermesa to grant them such, but, at the same time, he felt oddly guilty for being so readily able to slay them.

  It became more slaughter than battle. Picts by the scores fled into the deeper forest. A far greater number than those fell to the victorious Aquilonians. Memories of those comrades who had been massacred in previous attacks, of those settlers whose homes had been ravaged and who themselves had been tortured before death, drove the soldiers on.

  Nermesa himself did not call an end to the butchery until there was no one left within sight to kill. Even though they were Picts, it still sickened him; but to let them live might someday soon cost the life of one of his own people.

  He signaled a halt before his eager troops could follow after the survivors. To hunt Picts in the densest areas of the wilderness was to invite disaster such as had struck down General Octavio. Nermesa would not turn victory into disaster if he could at all help it.

  Konstantin was all for following. His face as bloody and sweaty as Nermesa’s felt, the grinning knight rode up, and shouted, “We can make it a perfect victory! I can take a party and pick off the survivors! Give me thirty men—”

  “No.” When Konstantin looked to argue, Nermesa stared down the other Aquilonian. “This ends here. We’ve broken the back of this band, but most of our men have been on the move for days! We ride to secure Anascaw, stay there a day to recover while the scouts tell us if the Picts re-form, then, if it’s safe to do so, head back to Scanaga.”

  He expected the veteran knight to pull experience on him, but Konstantin instead saluted Nermesa.

  “As you say,” he answered without rancor.

  Nermesa considered what he should do next. He decided to follow what he believed to be common sense. “Make certain that all our wounded are taken care of. The dead should be gathered, too. I want none of the bodies to act as a source of Pict mementos.”

  “Aye, I’ll be happy to make certain of that.” Konstantin rubbed his chin. “And the savages’ dead?”

  While he hated to act coldly, Nermesa saw no choice. He had to demoralize the Picts in whatever way possible, if only to salvage the fates of those he hoped to protect. “Strip them quickly of anything of ours they wear, then leave the bodies. We’ll let the wilderness take care of them.”

  “Aye.”

  As Konstantin rode off, Nermesa suddenly shuddered. The full impact of what had just happened finally hit him. Tears tumbled down his cheeks, but fortunately, no one was near enough to realize that it was anything other than sweat.

  He had served his king and his country . . . but at that moment, Nermesa wished that he had never left home.

  15

  OVER THE DAYS that followed, scouts reported a renewed hesitancy among the Picts. The tribes withdrew beyond the acknowledged border between the Westermarck and the wilderness. However, there they sat, simply seeming to wait. That they did not disperse meant that they remained a significant concern for the Aquilonians and Nermesa, especially, for it seemed that his name was the only reason for the halt to the natives’ incursions.

  “You’ve become the scourge of their people,” Caltero commented almost blithely, as they sat in his quarters sharing wine. “Especially after riding out and crushing that attack so neatly.”

  “It wasn’t neat at all.” Visions of the dead still continued to haunt Nermesa.

  “Well, as battles go, it was better than many. From what Konstantin and others described, you must’ve looked like a demon as you rode down the savages! Small wonder that they fled!”

  Nermesa stared into his mug. “It was all part of General Pallantides’ plan, that’s all. He spread word weeks ahead that Khatak’s slayer was returning to crush those who’d followed the brigand and his god. Pallantides deserves the credit, really.”

  At that moment, the door opened, and Caltero’s Pict woman reappeared. Khati gave Nermesa a shy smile.

  Caltero held out a hand toward her, saying, “But the truth is, you are the man who captured, then slew the brigand! The Picts set a lot by such deeds! Trust me, I know them well.” He pulled the female into his lap, kissing her hard before she could even settle down. Looking up at his cousin, Caltero added, “I know them very, very well.”

  Nermesa suddenly felt very uncomfortable. Putting down the mug, he rose. “I’ve some things I need to check on. Forgive me.”

  Khati looked as if she wanted him to stay, but Caltero waved him on. “By all means, cousin! Always on duty, you! Scanaga’s in safe hands . . .”

  But it was not Nermesa’s hands that were supposed to be protecting the territorial capital. Since Nermesa’s return from the battle, his cousin had completely abdicated any true responsibility. He left everything to Nermesa, who felt utterly overwhelmed yet could not leave things to fall apart. Nermesa continued to pray that either Caltero would stir himself to resume his designated role or that Flavian would deem it necessary to appoint someone of greater experience to the position. Neither hope, however, was a likely one. Nermesa’s victory had only cemented his “reputation.” Flavian, like Pallantides, clearly sought to use it to Aquilonia’s advantage, whatever the young knight’s protests.

  The cadaverous magistrate had come to the fort the day after Nermesa’s return, ostensibly to make a routine visit, but, in truth, to see to General Boronius’s condition. Despite efforts, rumors were spreading as to the commander’s health. The sources of these rumors could not be uncovered, but Flavian had not appeared overly concerned anymore.

  “A terrible, terrible thing,” the judge had said in his nasal voice. Looking much like a vulture in human form, he peered at Nermesa. “But not so terrible as it once would have been. After all, we have the hero of the Westermarck with us.”

  “Aye, that’ll make them think twice,” Caltero—no help at all as far as Nermesa had been concerned—had chimed in.

  “Tarantia is aware of Boronius’s situation. I await their word on what should be done.”

  This had done nothing to soothe Nermesa. “Surely, they’ll make some decision soon!”

  “We can but continue to be patient,” was Flavian’s reply.

  But in the ensuing days, Tarantia remained silent. Nermesa found it astonishing that General Pallantides, whatever his opinion of Bolontes’ son, would risk the wes
t on a much-untried fighter such as he. Surely, at least King Conan understood the risks, having fought the Picts himself as a young mercenary. What could they be thinking?

  With no other choice, Nermesa continued as de facto commander of the fort. He made the rounds, went over details with Caltero and Konstantin, and constantly prayed silently for his deliverance from this situation. If Mitra heard him, however, the god chose to stay as quiet as Aquilonia’s ruler.

  Yet another day passed without word. On this one, Nermesa had spent hours seeing to the organization of supplies to the frontier forts. His cousin and Konstantin had finally retired, but Nermesa had not ceased his work until certain he had missed no detail, however minor. That done, he found himself reluctant to go directly to bed. Nermesa had new quarters—both Flavian and Caltero having insisted that, as one of those now in charge, he move to a private building appropriate to his rank—but, the heir to Klandes was not yet comfortable with them. Thus, although he had already done so earlier, Nermesa chose to make the rounds of the fort again.

  Despite his own questionable opinion of himself, he found that his presence did indeed seem to boost the morale of the other soldiers, even the senior knights to whom he should have been subordinate. The late inspection also turned out to be a good decision for him; the evening air cooled his head, so often burning with concerns, and the walk itself proved therapeutic. His tensions began at last to ease.

  As he finally headed back to his quarters, though, he suddenly had the notion that he was being followed. In the military fort of Scanaga, that should not have been possible, but Nermesa could not shake the feeling. On a hunch, he spun around.

  A dark, female figure gasped.

  Nermesa leaned close. “Khati?”

  The friendly Pict lowered her eyes. “Forgive this one, lion warrior! I meant nothing . . . I only wanted . . .”

  As she trailed off, Nermesa demanded, “What are you doing out here? Where’s Caltero?”

  “He sleeps.” Khati said it with what sounded like a hint of relief. “He sleeps much.”

  Caltero did have that habit, especially after emptying another wine jug; but where it concerned his dealings with the Pict woman, Nermesa felt uncomfortable hearing of it. “And you didn’t want to sleep with him?”

  “Yes . . . and no.” Her long, straight hair bordered her exotic face perfectly. She stared into his eyes, and Nermesa knew exactly why the female had been following him. “Less now.”

  He could very well take her offer now and his cousin would probably not think a thing about it. Nermesa was tempted, too. Khati was beautiful, and her body was full of lush curves barely obscured by her simple garments.

  “You should go back to him . . .” the knight managed. Nermesa did not wish to be distracted by anything, however wonderful that distraction might be.

  Khati placed a soft, slim hand on his. “No . . .”

  She suddenly leaned up and kissed him.

  Fire coursed through Nermesa, and he returned the kiss. All thought of Caltero faded.

  There was a crash from the direction of General Boronius’s quarters.

  Pulling free, Nermesa left a startled Khati and ran toward the building. As he neared, to his horror he noticed that both of the general’s guards were missing and the door was ajar.

  Sword drawn, Nermesa burst into the front room . . . and beheld, sprawled on the floor, the bodies of both soldiers. In the dark, he could not tell how they had perished, but he thought he saw blood near the throats.

  From his right, a figure leapt out at him.

  The Aquilonian brought up his blade, catching the other’s sword squarely. The figure did not move like a Pict or wear the armor of a soldier. What Nermesa could see of the assassin’s garments—some sort of pants and jerkin—reminded him of the night Khatak’s bandits had attacked the column.

  The brigand, if that was what he was, fought with the ferocity of one well aware that every second made capture all the more likely. He desperately thrust at Nermesa, nearly slicing off the side of the noble’s neck. Nermesa slashed at the villain’s sword arm, cutting into the unprotected wrist.

  The assassin cried out. His wounded limb could not hold the weapon, which dropped to the floor with a clatter.

  “Surrender—” Nermesa began, but, with a snarl, the shadowy figure lunged at him.

  Startled, the Aquilonian, his sword still held ready, backed up a step.

  There was a clatter, and Nermesa’s foe slipped awkwardly. The knight reacted, thrusting with his blade.

  The brigand grunted, his body quivering. He slumped against Nermesa, impaled. Belatedly, Nermesa realized that the rattle had been the man’s foot slipping on the fallen sword. The assassin had, in part, caused his own death.

  There were shouts from far outside, but Nermesa had no time for them. Tossing aside the body, he raced into the general’s personal quarters.

  Boronius lay quiet in his bed, in the dark looking much as he had when last Nermesa had visited. However, as he neared, Nermesa heard no sound of breathing.

  Nerves taut, he reached out and touched Boronius’s chest, hoping to feel it rise and fall.

  “Mitra . . .” Nermesa murmured. A horrific moistness covered the general’s upper torso, sticky to the touch. There was no movement. No breathing.

  He stepped back as the enormity of the black scene overcame him.

  The floorboards just behind him creaked.

  Nermesa whirled, already aware that he turned too late. He sensed another figure in the dark, one that could only be up to deviltry.

  But the second assassin, little more than a silhouette, abruptly twitched, then groaned. As Nermesa brought his sword into play, he watched in astonishment as the figure dropped at his feet.

  Dropping to one knee, the noble checked to see what had happened. As his free hand ran across the assassin’s back, he discovered the hilt of a knife sticking out just below the neck.

  Someone else approached. Nermesa glanced up just as torchlight from outside gave the general’s quarters some illumination.

  Khati’s anxious gaze met his.

  Nermesa looked from the Pict to the body. The knife had a bone handle, like all Pictish weapons.

  “Did you do this?” he asked.

  She nodded mutely. The next instant, soldiers clambered into the room. One immediately seized Khati, but Nermesa called him off, then commanded, “Seal the door! No one enters without direct permission!”

  The Pict female continued to gaze from the body to Nermesa and back again. He realized that she was not certain that the assassin was dead. Nermesa nodded grimly.

  “One side!” Disregarding the soldier trying to stop him, Caltero strode to Nermesa. He took in the image of his cousin, the two dead bodies, and then Khati.

  “She shouldn’t be here,” the elder Klandes snapped to a guard. “Take her out and let her go back to my quarters. The rest of you leave, too, except for you pair. Not a word out of anyone as to what’s happened here . . . not that it all won’t come out soon enough.”

  Khati allowed herself to be guided away, but not without one last glance at Nermesa. He gave thanks that the struggle had already colored his face red.

  “Bring a lantern here,” commanded Caltero. Taking the light, he swung it over one body, then the other. Both were revealed to be as Nermesa had assumed them. Brigands in worn, likely stolen, clothing. One was a half-breed. The other looked as if his parentage could be traced back to the plains of Tarantia.

  “Khatak’s men,” Nermesa’s cousin announced. “No others would be so outrageously bold or seek vengeance so adamantly.”

  “And they succeeded.”

  “Oh?” Frowning, Caltero stepped beyond Nermesa to the general’s bed. With a sharp intake of breath, the other knight muttered, “Damn . . .”

  Finally rising, Nermesa gazed at the murdered officer. “How did this happen? How could they have gotten this far?”

  “Whoever’s now master of Khatak’s band is as wily as he
was. This was done to prove that the Picts need not fear us . . . or rather, you.”

  “Me?” Nermesa had not even given that notion a consideration. This was all about him?

  “Think of it,” Caltero went on. “If you can’t preserve the Boar’s life—much less keep the ruffians out of Scanaga itself—then the spirit the savages think watches over you must not favor you anymore. The brigands’ll be able to urge them to new attacks!”

  “But why? Why would they want the Picts to do that?”

  “Who knows? Easier looting of the dead? Possibly. Maybe much more. It was said that Khatak had ambitions above and beyond being just a dread bandit chief; I heard that he wanted to rule the Westermarck, maybe even stretch such a kingdom to the Bossonian Marches. Wouldn’t be the first thief with such desires. Just look at our beloved monarch.”

  Nermesa purposely ignored Caltero’s gibe at King Conan’s colored past. “We need to find out how they entered.”

  “Assuredly! I’ll see to it myself.” Caltero shook his head. “Damn! I was always fond of the Boar! This shouldn’t have happened!”

  They sent a trusted man to Flavian, who came himself in the middle of the night. The territorial judge looked upon the matter with grave concern. “I’d hoped that General Boronius might recover yet. This is dire. I shall have to put together a new message to Tarantia immediately.”

  “Still no reply from your previous missive?” Nermesa asked.

  “None. There may be other matters of greater concern. Nemedia has been reluctant of late to fulfill the agreement made after the king retook Aquilonia from them. That would require much focus by the throne.”

  “Not a good time for trouble out here, eh?” growled Caltero.

  “By all means, not. Still, we must make certain that they do not overlook the significance of this terrible event.”

  Nermesa’s cousin looked resolute. “I’ll make certain that some good, trusted men carry it as swiftly as possible, your honor.”

  Flavian nodded satisfaction. “The two of you must continue to keep the situation out here in check.” He looked pointedly at Nermesa. “Your reputation among the Picts is more important to us than ever.”