“Well fought, Varom!” roared King Conan, patting the man on the shoulder. “Well fought, indeed, by Crom!”
“But with the same results as ever . . .” returned the loser, rubbing his arm. “None’s the man who can beat you, your majesty!”
The blue eyes grew steely. “But I’ll trust they try their best! I want no mock victory simply because I sit on the throne!”
“I think we all understand that, my liege,” said another. General Pallantides materialized from the right. “Now, if you are through for the day, I’ve matters that must be presented to you.”
“Crom! Don’t you always?”
The appearance of the general urged Nermesa to a hasty departure. He had already been caught once looking like a gawking child. It would not do for Pallantides to see him so again.
“Truly the king is unique among mortals!” blurted Quentus as they hurried through the corridors. “Such raw power! Like a wild but graceful animal!”
“He is Conan,” the noble managed to answer. Had his face registered with the king? He hoped not. Bad enough if General Pallantides thought him a buffoon, but if the lord of Aquilonia also did, Nermesa’s hoped-for military career was already at an ignominious end.
As he came in sight of his assigned quarters, he noticed a figure who seemed to be waiting for him, by his black tunic with the gold lion emblazoned on it, a messenger of the palace. Fearful that he had already somehow slighted King Conan, Nermesa met the man.
“You are Nermesa, son of Bolontes and heir to House Klandes?” the functionary crisply asked.
“I am.”
“It was requested that this be handed to you personally,” the other informed him, holding forth a parchment.
“What is it?” Nermesa asked, taking the item. However, the messenger had already turned to leave and seemed disinclined to look back and answer. He marched away, quickly vanishing down another corridor.
“From your father?” suggested Quentus.
Turning the small, flat parchment over, the noble saw a seal that was not of his House . . . yet, was almost as familiar to him as that of Klandes.
“No . . . it’s Lenaro’s seal.”
The sudden intake of breath from Quentus matched Nermesa’s own quickening pulse. The young Klandes quickly broke the seal and read the contents.
“Lady Orena wishes to see me.”
Quentus tugged on his beard. “We could still pretend that the missive didn’t reach you or that you’re so busy here that you don’t have time to ride to her home—”
“She’s already thought of that,” Nermesa returned, crumpling the parchment. “Orena wants to see me immediately.” He handed Quentus the note to dispose of and girded himself for what was to come. “She’s here at the palace, waiting . . .”
3
THE GREAT HALL was some fifty feet high and required some time to cross even at a good pace. Every few yards, wide, fluted columns of marble stood sentry duty and, between them, the heads of kings past stared out from friezes painted most lifelike. Conan had been wise enough to understand that, when he had conquered the realm, it would not do to wipe away the Aquilonian people’s entire history. One could find nothing of Namedides in the palace, but rulers long dead—and, therefore, no political threat—were allowed to retain their places in the annals of the kingdom’s prestigious past.
There were living sentries in the hall, too—a half dozen crack members of the Black Dragons. Clad in armor, their stern gazes fixed straight ahead, they made for an imposing sight. Unfortunately, they also remained some distance from the torchlit entranceway where Nermesa’s visitor awaited. Knowing just who he would be facing, the would-be knight wished that their strength would accompany him and Quentus.
As Nermesa neared the iron doors, Orena Lenaro rose from the plush bench set aside for those awaiting entrance.
She was the vision of classic Aquilonian beauty—thick blond hair bound tight behind her head, a slim yet patrician nose, sculpted cheekbones artfully touched with a hint of red powder, full, crimson lips, and eyes as green as emeralds. Lady Orena Lenaro was a statuesque woman who stood not much shorter than Nermesa.
Her white-and-silver gown, bound at the waist to best accentuate her alluring figure, came within an inch of the floor. Nermesa’s betrothed looked like nothing less than a goddess . . . a cold, imperious goddess, in his eyes.
Behind her stood two other figures. One was a broad-shouldered, ponytailed Gunderman with a square jaw and very patient look. Although Orena’s servant for the past three years, Morannus, had, at times, become something of a friend to Nermesa. The noble often wondered how the earthy guard could tolerate his mistress’s imperious personality.
The second figure, barely seen behind Orena, was a shorter, almost boyish female who bore some resemblance to Nermesa’s betrothed, but in a rough way. Her auburn hair hung straight and unadorned, and the brown gown in which she was clad did likewise. Most appealing about her was her eyes, which were green like his betrothed’s, but softer. Those eyes stared wide at Nermesa, and a hint of red suddenly graced the pale cheeks.
“Orena,” Nermesa murmured, taking her proffered hand and kissing the back of it. He looked briefly at Orena’s younger companion. “Telaria, you’ve grown. Someday very soon, men will batter at the doors of Lenaro for your favor.”
The blush grew deeper. Orena glanced dismissively at Telaria. “My sister is fortunate that I am seeing to her future. I will find her a respectable match, one that will benefit House Lenaro.”
Nermesa did not bother to remind her that House Lenaro would be absorbed into Klandes upon their marriage. It was a sore point with Orena, even though Klandes offered new life to her dying line.
“One hopes it will be a pleasing match,” Nermesa agreed, with silent sympathy for Telaria. The sisters’ mother had died after delivering Telaria, and their father had passed only a few years later. He had been in negotiations for his youngest child’s betrothal to a very prominent family, but, upon his death, Orena had put an end to that. Since then, she seemed to be waiting for the most advantageous arrangement.
“So long as it is of value to both Houses, it will be.” Her lidded gaze fixed on Nermesa. There were many among his friends who envied his position, for Orena was among the most desired women in Tarantia, but Nermesa, who knew her better than anyone save perhaps the pair with her, would have preferred to trade betrothals with just about any of his comrades.
“Thank you for your wishes, Lord Nermesa . . .” Telaria belatedly piped up. She immediately shied back when Orena looked over her shoulder, and in the torchlight, Nermesa thought he saw a mark on the side of the young girl’s forehead. Dark thoughts filled his mind, but he knew that he could do nothing. As mistress of Lenaro, Orena had utter domain over her sister’s life, including punishment.
Again dismissing the presence of her sibling, Orena said, “Your letter caused me much distress, my love. To hear of your imminent entry into the service of the king—a proud and worthy service, of course—and to hear of it in so distant a manner as a message carried by a servant, shook me to the core! Our marriage date was to be set within the next year, but your impetuous desire, no doubt to prove yourself worthy of our match, places that date in jeopardy . . .”
Nermesa steeled himself. “As I stated in it, I ask forgiveness for my actions, Orena, but it was something I felt I must do. My soul demands it. Besides, it can only bring more prestige and advantage to our Houses . . .”
A subtle change in her manner indicated to Nermesa that his last words had struck Orena well. Prestige and advantage meant more to her than even to his father.
But still she would not let him slip free of the noose. “There is certainly truth to what you say, my love, and I applaud what can only build an even more prosperous future for us, but with our Houses yet unbound, I fear what might happen to both of them without a formal declaration of our unity.”
Nermesa fought back his anger. To hear her speak of it, their betrothal
sounded more like a peace treaty between two warring kingdoms . . . which might not have been so far from the truth. Worse, she clearly indicated with such words that she wanted some legal right to his estate should he fall victim to battle or accident while serving the king. Understandable in some ways, but the tone in which she suggested it made it sound more like a simple business consideration than concern for what might actually happen to him.
“Should tragedy befall me,” he responded, emphasizing the word since Orena had not even used it, “my father will do whatever must be done. You have my assurance on that.”
She started to say more, but Morannus suddenly interjected, “Noble lady, the hour draws late, and you have guests coming still.”
The blond woman nodded slightly. “Thank you for reminding me. It would be remiss of me to make them wait.” To Nermesa, Orena added, “Very well, if that is how it must be. Be careful, my love. Come back to me so that we may be wed as soon as possible.”
She leaned forward and kissed him. What should have been a caring, wondrous moment had, to Nermesa, all the emotion of ice. Orena’s lips pressed against his, but that was all.
The Gunderman opened the way for his mistress and her sister, but, as he did, he leaned back a bit and, with a brief nod, muttered, “Fare you well, Lord Nermesa.”
“You’re a patient soul,” the noble returned, also speaking low.
Morannus glanced at Lady Orena’s back, then again at Nermesa. With a momentary grin, he answered, “Very patient, yes.”
Only when the door had closed did Bolantes’ son relax. Beside him, Quentus shook his head.
“Glad as a lowly servant my choice of brides is mine, not that of some patriarch.”
“So why haven’t you married, then?”
The bearded man grinned. “Because it’s also the bride’s choice, and, so far, whoever she is, she’s decided to keep herself from my sight.”
Nermesa started to chuckle, but, at that moment, one of the other young hopefuls came barreling down the hall. He spied the pair and, with clear annoyance, growled, “Here you are! Garaldo sent me to look for you! You’re wanted in the main practice chamber!”
“For what?”
“How would I know?” sneered the other. “If you’re in trouble with him, I want no part of it! I’ve given the message, now it’s up to you to face him!”
Nermesa and Quentus glanced at one another, then rushed to where Sir Garaldo awaited them. As he ran, Nermesa went over everything that he could think of that might have caused the veteran fighter to find fault with him. Unfortunately, in his mind the list stretched far too long.
To his surprise, Garaldo was not alone in the chamber. There were four others from Nermesa’s group, all looking as concerned for themselves as Bolontes’ son did.
“Good. You’re here, too,” Garaldo commented in Quentus’s direction.
The servant grimaced. “What did I do?”
“Hush,” his master quickly ordered.
“Nermesa of Klandes,” continued the senior knight, ignoring Quentus’s outburst. The eye with the patch seemed to fix on Bolontes’ son. “I’ve had some trouble tracking you down.”
“Forgive me . . . I had a . . . an unexpected visitor.”
“A lady, no doubt. Hope you saw a lot of her, Nermesa of Klandes, for you’ll not have another chance for some time to come.”
“I don’t—”
But Garaldo cut him off. Instead, he surveyed the entire party. “You’ve all acted quite eager to join the finest military in all the known world. You all say you desire to serve the king, may he reign supreme for many years.” Again, the eye patch appeared to be facing Nermesa. “Well, lads, now you’ll be able to prove yourselves.”
He said no more, for then a cloaked figure entered who caused everyone to stand at attention. Garaldo slapped a fist against his chest in salute.
General Pallantides nodded to the assembled group. “These are the ones, Garaldo?”
“My opinion, General.”
“And one I greatly trust.” Pallantides looked over each one. He towered over them despite Nermesa and the rest being themselves well over average.
Nermesa expected an escort of Black Dragons to follow the general into the chamber, but it quickly became obvious that Pallantides was alone. True, here in the palace he was likely very safe—and could readily defend himself against most threats, anyway—but Nermesa was used to government officials and stout nobles who paraded through Tarantia’s streets with so many guards that one had to wonder if they assumed themselves more important to the realm than even the king.
The general abruptly paused before him, squinting. Up close, an anxious Nermesa noticed the small scars decorating much of Pallantides’ face. He also read in those eyes a man entirely devoted to his liege and his position. Pallantides would have cast himself over a cliff and let his bones dash on the ground below if it meant saving King Conan.
“You’ve a skilled arm, Nermesa of House Klandes. Is his wit quick enough to keep pace with it, Garaldo?”
As Nermesa fought to keep from quivering, the one-eyed knight chuckled. “I thought so, but he may be a bit distracted by the ladies . . .”
“Aren’t we all. What say you, Garaldo?”
“Aye, he could survive it . . . and help others to do so, I think.”
The heir to Klandes wanted to ask just what they were talking about but was certain that, if he did, he would be lowering himself in the eyes of both men. What did they have planned that they had to ask about not only his ability to survive, but how well he could keep others alive, too?
“What about this one?” The commander of the Black Dragons indicated Quentus, who stood as frozen as Nermesa.
“A finely matched set for a master and servant. You’ll get good value.”
General Pallantides nodded at what Nermesa thought a very enigmatic statement, then addressed the group. “Sir Garaldo tells me that, of your band, you lot are the most capable fighters.” There was some swelling of chests until he added, “But capable fighters are easier to find than honest politicians. What Aquilonia needs and what I, as the king’s general and commander of his loyal Black Dragons require, though, are those who can fight and think at the same time. Those who can command others and keep them, as much as possible, from losing their heads to an ax or having a canyon slit through their chests by a sword.”
Although he tried to hide his growing excitement, Nermesa felt his mouth twitch upward in the beginnings of a smile. He and the others were meant for something important to the realm!
“The Black Dragons are the elite guard of the king, and I’m proud to be at their head, but my duties extend to all Aquilonia. That includes the Westermarck . . . which is where you lot come in.”
The Westermarck. To Nermesa, the vast wilderness area was a place of legend, where brave soldiers and intrepid colonists sought to tame the lands of the bestial Picts. Many were the astounding tales a young Nermesa had listened to with round eyes from servants who had, in their earlier days, fought as men-at-arms. He had often imagined himself battling tattooed, loincloth-clad warriors who wielded axes and shouted war cries in their unintelligible tongue.
Now that boyhood dream was about to become a reality.
“Garaldo will give you each your orders. You will be the equivalent of captains to start and will respond by that title. Bear in mind, the Westermarck is no place for games, so if any of you think yourselves not up to the task, you likely aren’t. You can tell Garaldo yourself and save us all a lot of trouble and a lot of lives. That is all I have to say.”
Garaldo stepped forward to say something, but what it was, Nermesa would never know, for, as Pallantides turned to leave, he nodded to Bolontes’ son, then patted him on the shoulder. Nermesa stood silent as the general departed, entirely undone by the personal gesture.
“The Westermarck . . .” Quentus finally mouthed, stirring his master. “Had an uncle who fought there . . . and never came back.”
T
he comment finally drove home exactly what they might face. Nermesa looked at Quentus. “You’re not required to do this. I’ll send you back to the house with a message for Father stating that I refused your company—”
“Do you take me for a coward?” Quentus snapped, ignoring their different statuses. “Master Nermesa, I’m as willing to serve Aquilonia as you!”
“Good to hear that!” Garaldo joined them. “I don’t like looking the fool! I told the general that you two were worthy of what he wanted, and if you’d backed down, it’d have been my hide . . .” The elder knight leaned close to Nermesa. “And then it’d be your hide, young master.”
“I’ve no intention of backing down, Sir Garaldo . . .”
“Then we’re settled, aren’t we?” He handed Nermesa a small, folded parchment. “The orders. Written in Pallantides’ good hand with the king’s signature to mark them! Come the ceremony, you’ll be a true knight of Aquilonia, lad! Then all you’ve got to do is prove it . . .”
Nermesa gaped at the parchment and the power held within. He had thought his life transformed just by his decision to join, but truly the most dramatic change had come now.
The Westermarck . . .
THE DRUMS BEAT faster and faster, stirring the warriors’ blood as they danced around the great fire. In the wild, flickering flames, the tattoos covering their bodies seemed to writhe of their own will. Short but broad-shouldered, the warriors moved smoothly and swiftly like the animals of the thick forest around them. They wore little save loin-cloths or deerskin breeches, and their thick black manes were bound tight by copper bands. The flames reflected in their narrow black eyes, and the patterns painted on their faces only added to their demonic appearance.
Now and then, one would howl, often revealing teeth sharpened to points. Sharp teeth also hung around their necks, those of the fox, from which this particular tribe took its name. Each Pictish tribe chose an animal or bird spirit as its totem. The Fox Tribe was not among the largest, but they were known for their slyness and ferocity.
The God in the Moon Page 4
