“Naturally!”
He gave her a hug and another kiss on the cheek, then departed his home. Outside, Quentus was finishing packing Nermesa’s horse, a chestnut stallion . . . and another beside it.
Quentus’s own.
“What’s the meaning of this?” the noble demanded.
“I’ll be coming with you, good master. Think I’d be leaving you to the mercy of the military?”
“My father would never—”
“Your father arranged it all. Three days ago.” The bearded servant grinned. “Looks like he’s as good at keeping a secret as you are! He may not want you riding off, but if he couldn’t be stopping you, then he wanted someone to keep watch! Who better than me to do that, eh?”
Shaken, Nermesa gripped the other man by the shoulders. “Quentus, I’ll go speak with him! I never would’ve risked you so! I know you don’t have a choice, but to be forced into the military without—”
“Master Nermesa! I proposed that I be the one before he even had the chance to ask! You think I’ll be letting you go into battle without me around to save your hide?” He slapped the blade sheathed at his side.
In truth, Quentus handled a sword at least as well as the noble. Small wonder, since, as was common among the aristocracy, a trusted servant like him trained with their master. Nermesa had needed someone with whom to spar, and Quentus had proven perfect.
“But . . .” The protest died on his lips. He had thought himself so clever, yet both his father and servant had outwitted him.
Quentus held Nermesa’s horse while his master mounted. The servant then mounted his own beast, an older, brown stallion that the noble realized was not the horse that he had at first thought it was. “Is that one of my father’s steeds?”
“Yes, but a lesser one. Wouldn’t do for a humble servant to have a better animal than his master.”
“But why?”
“My lord Bolontes felt I might not keep pace with you in times of trouble if I rode my own mare.” In truth, Quentus’s own horse was more useful for carrying loads around in town. Stockier, she was not built for speed as a horse in war necessarily was.
Nermesa did not have to ask, but he knew that his father had used this horse to pay Quentus, the better to guarantee that the servant would indeed watch over the heir to Klandes. With each passing moment, Nermesa was feeling less and less clever.
He hoped that General Pallantides and the king would not find him so.
Although they had an estate outside of the city—as did most of the affluent Houses—Bolontes preferred to make his home more often in the clan’s original home in Tarantia itself. This allowed him to be more in touch with those elements upon whose business Klandes depended. Thus it was that only minutes after departing the gates, Nermesa and Quentus rode through the throng-filled streets of Aquilonia’s fabled capital.
Tarantia was the nexus of western civilization, a place where all came to learn, to marvel, to envy. A great, stone wall with battlements surrounded it, and four gateways—set at the compass points—allowed entrance from the surrounding plains. Tall marble structures dominated the interior, many of them the traditional blue and gold towers first built by the city’s founders. Tarantia was actually a more recent name, and some elders still called it Tamar, a name whose meaning Nermesa had never discovered. Most of the major buildings had a series of fluted columns marking their exteriors and stone roofs sharply slanted, with masterful carvings over the columned entrances.
Statues decorated buildings of particular purpose and also marked intersections named for famous personages of the past. As with the busts in Nermesa’s home, these were brilliantly painted. Life-size warriors and statesmen in colored garments watched over visitors and inhabitants alike in so real a manner that every now and then someone could be caught stealing a glance at a statue as if feeling the marble eyes upon him.
The pair passed one of the massive, arched city gates just as a troop of breastplated Gundermen with long pikes resting on their shoulders marched out of the capital. Nermesa watched the unit with pride despite its consisting of the gray-eyed, tawny-haired fighters from the northern edge of the empire. Gundermen were not Aquilonians in the traditional sense; their home, Gunderland, had been seized early on in the realm’s formation. The people of that land were of an independent nature, but were among the most trusted soldiers in all the military. There had never been anything resembling an insurrection in Gunderland. Men such as these had battled beside King Conan when he had saved Aquilonia from the sorcerer and traitors and held a place of honor with the Cimmerian-born leader.
Despite Aquilonia’s presently being at peace, wary guards watched from a walkway near the top of the city wall, which extended all the way around the capital. The king did not take his victory four years prior as a sign to relax; no, Conan had a healthy distrust of his neighbors . . . and even some of his own people. It was something that any good monarch soon learned . . . if he lived long enough.
An Aquilonian knight rode past them. The nose guard on his helm, shaped like that of a dragon’s muzzle, gave the mustached fighter a fearsome look. He wore chain under his breastplate and at his side hung a huge, scabbarded sword that Nermesa doubted he himself could have easily hefted. Yet, if all went as planned, Bolontes’ son would soon be a member of this fabled order of defenders.
High buildings with iron-railed balconies overlooked the market through which Nermesa now passed. With the day well under way, people of all castes flocked the public area, making travel slow. In addition to many whose blood could be traced back to the same stock as Nermesa, there were more Gundermen—mostly acting as hired guards—and darker Poitainians, with whom Quentus shared some blood. There were brown-eyed Bossonians, often with bows over their shoulders, and a wary-eyed figure in a cloak who might have been a Stygian. A group of short, stocky Argosseans had set up a tent of their own and now dickered with customers over pearls and golden goblets, perhaps brought from beyond the southern land of Zingara. Nermesa even saw a pair of yellow-skinned travelers in long gowns, who he had to assume came from Khitai. If so, they surely had committed some terrible offense in their homeland and been cast out by order of their god-emperor. Although their kind could be found in goodly numbers in such places as Stygia, few of the almost-mythic race came to far-off Aquilonia unless forced to by circumstance.
The market abounded with fresh produce, fish, meats, and products from within Aquilonia and beyond, even silks from the Khitans’ homeland and beyond. Lush animal skins from Kush and copper trinkets from the Pictish lands were among some of the other unusual items to be found in the capital’s market.
Nobles followed by slaves and servants wandered around, buying whatever struck their fancy. More serious figures in the garb of House officials picked and chose among the various wares, especially the foodstuffs, seeking what would please their lords. Freeborn citizens argued with sellers for every coin they could keep, their savings kept in tiny leather pouches clutched in one hand.
Several women of varying social status looked up with interest at Nermesa as he rode past, eventually causing his cheeks to burn. Having been betrothed for nearly all of his life, he had not had much interaction with women other than his mother and Orena.
Quentus chuckled. “Would that I had your face instead of this crag of mine . . .”
“You’ve had your share, so I’ve noticed.”
“No complaints, but I’d be always willing to take what you’ve not had.”
Nermesa returned his chuckle . . . then suddenly had to rein his horse to a halt as a group of riders bullied their way directly toward where the pair were located.
“Aside, you!” snarled a muscular guard in blue-and-black garb. A Gunderman by birth, he treated Nermesa as if the young noble were the outsider, even kicking at the latter’s horse to shove both out of the way.
Quentus, one hand slipping to his broadsword, immediately pulled in front of his master. Despite the Gunderman’s obvious skill and armo
red torso, the servant looked more than willing to take him on. “Treat my lord Nermesa so again, and I’ll be cutting that tongue of yours and feeding it to some Kushite as a delicacy!”
The guard snarled and reached for his own weapon, his four comrades following suit.
“There will be no need for violence,” clipped a cloaked figure whom the fighters obviously protected. “Be not so eager, Betavio, that you ignore the mark of a House so respected as that of Klandes embossed on the saddles of both men.”
Betavio bit back some retort, then bowed his head at his own master. “Forgive me, Baron Sibelio! You ordered haste, and I thought—”
“Wrongly.” The other noble rode up next to the Gunderman. “Now, apologize not to me, but rather to one I believe Nermesa Klandes himself.”
As the guard bowed his head to Nermesa, Bolontes’ son eyed the other aristocrat. He knew of House Sibelio, a far more recent but quickly ascending name among the nobility. Known in previous generations mostly as a rustic House in the agricultural lands north of Tarantia, it had, in this last generation, transformed itself into a capable competitor of Klandes . . . and mostly because of the man before Nermesa.
Baron Antonus Sibelio was perhaps a dozen years younger than Bolontes but looked closer in age to Nermesa. Sibelio was an athletic man with lupine features and black eyes that seemed to burn through the younger Klandes. Clean-shaven, with pale, brown hair, he resembled some of the emperors of old.
His garments marked his success in trading, the robes made of rich, colored silk. His voluminous cloak was clasped around his neck by a gold disk bearing the House crest, a heron with one leg raised. In the bird’s talons was held a ready sword.
Pulling himself from the baron’s powerful gaze, Nermesa bowed his head. “I am honored to be known by the illustrious Baron Antonus Sibelio. Your reputation precedes you.”
Sibelio smiled, resembling more the wolf than ever. “But it is the House of Klandes that is most illustrious of all and, to encounter its heir is my honor, to be sure.” He snapped his fingers. “Betavio! Let us stand aside for Klandes, first among Houses . . .”
The guards began to make room for Nermesa, but the young noble’s eyes were not on them. Instead, he noticed the glittering emerald on a ring worn by the baron. It captured Nermesa’s attention the way it might have a magpie’s. Bolontes’ son felt drawn to it—
“I said the way is clear for us now, Master Nermesa . . .”
“Hmm?” He had not even noticed that Quentus had been talking to him. Belatedly nodding to the baron, Nermesa added, “Thank you for your kindness. May we meet again soon.”
Baron Sibelio smiled graciously, revealing many teeth. “I am certain we shall . . .”
He led his guards away. Nermesa and Quentus rode on and only after a few minutes did Nermesa realize that he had been all but holding his breath.
“There’s one to watch, my lord!” commented Quentus with a growl. “Ambitious to the core . . .”
“He’s made much of his House. I won’t fault him for that—” A building rose in the distance, and all thought of competing nobles vanished from Nermesa’s mind. “There it is!”
His dark-haired companion grunted. “Aye. The palace. We see it all the time. You’ve got a good view from your balcony, remember?”
But to the Klandes heir it was much more than just a towering structure with high walls and the banner of the lion flying above. It was a place of power, the place from which he whom some called the lion watched over all Aquilonia.
“The palace . . .” he breathed. “King Conan.”
2
FOG WAS NEVER a good thing in the Westermarck, of that Captain Trajan had long grown certain. Picts and devils—and sometimes both—used the fog for foul deeds. Many a time a courier or even a small patrol had been waylaid by disaster, each head often left on the end of a spear or . . . more unsettling, not found at all.
And then there was the brigand chieftain, Khatak.
The constant struggle to secure the border meant an incessant need for supplies for the various forts. General Boronius, commander of all territorial forces, believed that the fate of the entire expansion westward depended upon allowing no single location to fall into disorder because of insufficient materials. Therefore, despite fog, it had fallen to Trajan’s men to guide the wagons to one of the central forts of Oriskonie, the northernmost of the four provinces of the Westermarck. Thinly settled, Oriskonie often proved the most tempting target for the Picts, and now Khatak, who was half-Pict himself. Through the frontier province, the brigand leader struck at the richer land of Conawaga to the south, sometimes even daring to rob caravans near Scanaga. Scanaga, the largest town and the seat of the territorial judge, was also where General Boronius kept his base of operations.
The fifty soldiers and six wagons had been on the journey for four days without incident. Trajan knew that the fort could only be a short distance ahead, but, until he saw it, he would not relax. True, he believed his force more than capable of keeping Khatak at bay, but one never asked for trouble. That was something ten years in the Westermarck had taught him well.
It was with relief that he spotted the first hints of the fort. All concern of bandits and savages vanished from Trajan’s thoughts. Even Khatak was not foolish enough to take on the combined might of the garrison and his fighters. Trajan’s force would stay the night, then return to Scanaga in the morning, none the worse for wear.
A few torches dimly marked the top of the large wooden structure. Trajan grumbled under his breath at the miserly attitude of the fort’s commander. They would have seen the fort at least a mile earlier if the proper lighting had been put in place. It was not as if this region lacked for wood. They were surrounded by virgin oaks, pines, and more. Fuel for a fire was never a problem out here.
“Prepare to give the signal,” he commanded the company trumpeter. “On my word.”
The soldier brought the horn to his lips and waited. Trajan let the small column get almost within hailing distance before nodding.
The horn blared, echoing long in the otherwise silent land. The captain leaned back and waited expectantly.
But no reply came.
Frowning, Trajan muttered, “Try one more time.”
But the results of a second blast brought only more silence . . . and increased wariness on the part of the column.
“Dralos! I want you and five men to go scout that place, but be on your guard! No heroics!”
The officer in question saluted, then called out the names of five others. With two torches to march their way, the group cautiously rode off toward the fort.
About midway, they came to a halt, then quietly led their mounts to their destination. Trajan watched with rising impatience as the twin torches vanished moments later. That they did so made him assume that Dralos and the others had found a way inside. That bothered Trajan. Had the gates been left open?
Minutes slipped by . . . then suddenly the thunder of hurried hoofbeats made the captain stiffen. Dralos and his men came riding back as if their mounts were on fire. Watching them approach, Trajan snarled, “All weapons at the ready! Be prepared for anything!”
Dralos reined his mount to a halt. A huge man with a face like a hungry cat, he had, to Trajan’s memory, fought bloodthirsty Picts with all the emotion of a bored shepherd. The captain had watched Dralos run through adversaries with utter detachment, then move on to the next. Now, though, the soldier stared wide-eyed at Trajan, his face pale.
“They’re all dead, Captain! Every last one of ’em! The gates were wide-open, and, when we went in, they were everywhere! Slaughtered!”
The heads of those who had ridden with Dralos bobbed up and down in stunned agreement. Trajan sensed restlessness from those behind him and realized that he had to seize control of the situation.
“Remember yourself, Dralos!” the captain snapped. As the soldier instinctively straightened, Trajan glared past him at the darkened structure. “I will see this for my
self! We ride for the fort!”
“But, Captain—”
With a sharp cut of his hand, Trajan ended the protest. “Would you rather we camp out here? Move!”
His appearance of defiance somewhat comforted the men. Captain Trajan hid his own uncertainties well. Still, as he had indicated, what choice did they have but to enter the fort? The woods could not be trusted at night.
Yet, when they reached the gates, he almost regretted his decision. One body lay sprawled just at the entrance, the arms outstretched as if imploring the newcomers to flee for their lives. Trajan had a torch brought up.
“Mitra . . .” he whispered. The dead soldier’s expression was one of outright fear. Worse, whatever had slain him had done so in a manner not at all like what Trajan had expected. To his trained gaze, it looked as if something had shattered the Aquilonian’s bones—even battering the breastplate to ruin—and only then had ripped out his throat. The mouth still lay open in midscream.
“Stand ready . . .” Trajan commanded unnecessarily as he led the column inside.
The scene that slowly unveiled itself in the light of their torches resembled something out of nightmare. The corpses of the garrison’s complement lay strewn throughout the area. The dead hung from the walls, sprawled on the ground, and, in one particularly macabre case, stood pinned against the door of the barracks.
Despite the grisly scene, however, some of Trajan’s horror changed to fury. There were men who appeared to have been torn apart like the sentry at the gates, but many others, including the one by the barracks, had died in a more familiar fashion. The bolts sticking out of the throats and chests of several were proof enough.
“Picts!” he spat. “Picts or brigands, it matters not which! This is their work!” He looked around, and the absence of what he searched for further verified to the captain the source of the villainy. “Not a sign of any of the friendlies,” Trajan added, referring to those natives who lived in the fort . . . especially the officers’ kept women. “One or more of them clearly opened the way, likely after slitting the throat of the guard.”
The God in the Moon Page 2
