The five drummers continued to beat madly. The taut skins on their drums came not from some beast, but rather slaughtered enemies. The Fox people believed that this bound the souls of their adversaries to them, making the tribe stronger.
And around the area of the ceremony, atop poles towering over the Picts, the skulls of other enemies stared down sightlessly. Some had the squat shape of Picts, for feuds between the tribes were common, but several had the longer look of the invaders, the Aquilonians. A few of the latter were especially fresh.
Huts encircled the opening, and from one rounded wooden structure emerged a bent, skeletal figure who wore upon his balding head a complete fox skin that draped down in the back and ended with the skull of the animal atop. Despite his tremendous age, the eyes were so piercing that any upon whom he looked cringed.
A sleek, well-curved young female, wearing little more than the warriors, walked behind him. She carried two bowls, one with a dark liquid, the other a white powder. The shaman crossed the dancers without any hesitation, for it was they who made certain not to interfere with his path for fear of their souls. The female followed quickly behind, cautious not to spill a single drop or crumb from either bowl.
The shaman stopped before the flames, then reached to the side with his hand. The girl, her face fearful, brought the bowls under his fingers. From the powder, the elder took a pinch. He threw the powder into the fire, and the flames briefly exploded skyward.
“Jhebbal Sag!” the shaman called in the Picts’ guttural tongue.
Around him, the dancers paused and all shouted the name again. “Jhebbal Sag!”
He took another pinch, tossed it in, and as the fire shot up, called out a different yet equally fearsome name. The other Picts repeated it, their eyes wide and devoted.
At last, the skeletal elder took the bowl with the liquid from the girl. So close to the flames, the crimson color of the contents could readily be seen. The shaman uttered several words, then, raising the bowl over his head, roared, “Yana Gullah!”
“Gullah!” came the cry from the rest.
He threw the liquid into the fire.
A tremendous hiss rose and, instead of even dousing the flames slightly, the liquid fueled them in such a manner that the girl and several warriors nearby stepped back. Only the shaman remained close, laughing at the results.
Then he whipped his head to the right and growled to two warriors near another hut. The stone-faced figures ducked inside and, a moment later, removed from it a desperately struggling Aquilonian.
“No! Please! No!” he cried. What was left of his soiled garments marked him not as a soldier but a merchant. Formerly fine, silken robes now ended in grimy tatters. The once properly plump physique beneath had shriveled to nearly the boniness of the shaman. The merchant’s head had been shaven with no regard as to cutting the flesh in the process. His face was freshly painted, a skull symbol embracing his features.
His hands and legs bound, the Aquilonian was dragged to a spot just before the flames. He ceased pleading, but continued to look around in panic, seeking that which was to be his death.
At a silent signal from the shaman, the warriors forced the victim into a kneeling position, then tied his arms to his legs. They staked both to the ground so that he could not even roll away.
The drums beat. The shaman danced around the Aquilonian. He threw a bit of the white powder at the merchant, calling again the name Gullah.
Suddenly, the drumming came to a halt. The shaman waved a hand to the people and, as one, the Picts rose and began to walk off. There was that in their steps that showed a barely held eagerness to be away. The merchant anxiously watched them, aware that he was being left alone for a reason.
Only the tribal elder remained. Grinning darkly, he put both hands by his mouth, and shouted, “Yana Gullah! Yana Gullah zin!”
And with that, he, too, vanished from the area.
Shaking, the Aquilonian peered around, but, after several seconds, nothing happened. The lack of action did nothing to assuage him and, in fact, heightened his fear. He struggled, attempting both to free himself from the stake and tear apart his bonds. His contortions caused his shadow, created by the lusty fire, to dance even more madly.
He gasped with revived hope as he felt the stake loosen. It had a sharp point to it, which the merchant could possibly use to sever his other bonds. His tugging grew more determined . . .
In the midst of his struggles, he happened to look up and see that the shadow had grown to gargantuan proportions. The merchant started to look away again . . . then noticed the giant shadow move to the side, revealing the smaller one that truly belonged to him.
With growing horror, he forced his gaze to that direction in order to see what could be so huge yet had moved as silently as the shadow it cast.
“Mitra!” the merchant gasped. “No!”
Huge hands seized him . . .
THE INHUMAN HOWL that followed made the Fox people kneel and chant. One word . . . or name . . . they repeated over and over.
Gullah . . . Gullah . . .
But one there was who did not chant, instead watching wryly as the Picts abased themselves. Khatak the brigand, arms folded, smiled as the tribe concluded its bloody ritual. Tomorrow, a new head would decorate the poles . . .
He let the chanting go on for a minute more, then located the chief. The wiry, deep-chested warrior rose quickly when he saw Khatak coming toward him. He treated the brigand with as much regard as he would have the shaman, possibly even more.
“The people of the fox are pleased with this blessing, great one,” the tribal leader quickly said in Pictish.
“Then there should be no trouble doing as I asked,” returned Khatak in the same tongue. “The power of the Fox Tribe is strong now, especially with The Hairy One Who Lives in the Moon having shown his favor, yes?”
The chieftain grunted proudly. “Spirit of Gullah fills us all! We will crush the Wolf, the Raven, the shelled ones . . . any foe that is asked of us by you!”
“You know what is wished by Gullah through me, who speaks his words on the mortal plane. Do as is desired, and greater yet will be the Fox Tribe, for it’ll be a part of something so powerful that the shelled ones will be driven from the Land screaming!”
That uttered, the bandit leader turned from the chief without any farewell. He strode through the camp, finally leaving it entirely. A short distance through the moonlit forest, he came upon three riders, his companions on this trip. Two were fellow brigands sworn to his service. The other was a form so completely cloaked, one could not have sworn whether it was man, woman, or even human.
“It’s done,” the half-breed declared to the others. “The Fox Tribe will fall into place with the others.”
The robbers grinned. The hood of the unseen figure dipped once.
A slight shuffling of the foliage above made Khatak glance up. He smiled in the direction of the sound. “Done already? Well, then, we can leave.”
The brigand leader mounted, then led the others off. In their wake, the only sound of the fifth member of their group was the occasional rustle of leaves in the treetops behind them.
4
KING CONAN WAS not one for the long, pompous ceremonies that from time immemorial had so marked Aquilonia’s aristocracy. Thus it was that on the evening after he was informed of his posting to the Westermarck, Nermesa and the others selected—all clad in the colors of their respective Houses—stood before the former barbarian and his magnificent queen, Zenobia.
Nermesa was very taken by the queen. In much the way that Conan’s exotic look and manner made him so distinctive as ruler, so, too, did Zenobia mark a change in what Nermesa’s people expected of a royal consort.
The queen was said to be of Nemedian heritage, but she had burned all ties with that kingdom when she had risked herself to save Conan after he had been stolen away to Nemedia by black sorcery. Some said that she had originally been a harem girl who had been in love with the king si
nce gazing upon him from afar years before. Whether or not the truth, these days no one doubted her deep love and devotion not only to her husband, but also the people over whom she now ruled.
A dark-haired beauty, Zenobia was not merely a show-piece for the king. She had a quick wit about her, spoke her mind whenever she felt, and was clearly well respected for it by the former barbarian. Clad in a silken gown that draped to the floor, Zenobia sat at a height equal to her husband. No one who stood before them could not think them as other than a perfect match.
The throne room was large and elaborate, capable of holding almost a thousand people standing. High tapestries, with the golden lion prominently displayed, lined the stone walls. The marble floor was draped by a wide, intricately woven rug with gold lacing brought all the way from Khitai. Elaborate carvings covered the walls between the tapestries, carvings of the heroics of the man on the throne. The last had been done on the express order of the queen, for King Conan was not one to advertise his prowess so. Zenobia, however, wanted everyone to remember of what her husband was capable.
The thrones were strong oak with gold trim throughout and ivory seats of the plushest down. Despite that, the king looked decidedly uncomfortable sitting on his even though he had already ruled for several years. It was said that the only place where King Conan could sit relaxed was in the saddle during a heated battle. The luxuries of civilization were things to which he could never completely become accustomed.
Whatever their qualms, Nermesa’s parents, of course, attended his knighting, as did the families of those of the others. Orena—her sister and Morannus behind her—stood just to the side of Bolontes. Nermesa knew no one else there save for Quentus, who had been made a man-at-arms earlier, and, to his surprise, Baron Antonus Sibelio. The baron was evidently the cousin of one of the young Klandes’ comrades, but Nermesa still found it a bit curious that he would be there.
True to his nature, the monarch of Aquilonia made the ceremony short and perfunctory. After heralds blew welcoming notes on long, brass horns, Nermesa’s band stepped up to the dais upon which the thrones sat. Rising from his, the king eyed each man in turn. The young nobles immediately went down on one knee, bowing their heads in the process. Coming up to them, Conan drew his sword, a long, menacing blade with a jeweled hilt.
Once more, the horns blew. One after another, Conan—dressed in simple if richly woven garments and wearing not a crown but a plain golden band around his head—took his blade and tapped each of the kneeling figures twice on the shoulder. Nermesa shivered with excitement when his turn came.
When he had finished, the king sheathed his sword, took up a goblet of wine with his bride, and, with the other guests, drank a toast to the new knights.
“May your arm be swift and strong and your blade sharp,” the muscular figure intoned. Then, with a brief, sly smile, he added, “And may your enemies lie piled at your feet, their women wailing their loss the song in your ears.”
Several of the nobles looked askance at this last, but Nermesa, after a momentary shock, realized that King Conan had, in addition to an Aquilonian blessing, given them a Cimmerian one as well.
The heralds signaled the end of the ceremony with a long, martial blast that echoed long after they finished. As Nermesa rose, he momentarily caught General Pallantides standing with his father. The encounter appeared a fleeting one, but there was a familiarity between the two men that surprised the knight. Did the elder Klandes know the commander of the Black Dragons?
General Pallantides joined the king and queen, who, with very little fanfare, departed the proceedings. Nermesa went to his parents, who hugged him.
“An . . . interesting ceremony,” Bolontes remarked.
His mother did not hold back. “I was so very proud of the way you looked!”
“Thank you. Thank you both.”
“A pity you’ve no chance to return to the house at least for this evening,” Nermesa’s father added. “Since we will not be seeing you for some time to come.”
“I’m sorry, Father. We ride at first light for the Westermarck.”
“The Westermarck!” gasped Callista, her pride giving way to fear again at this reminder. “Oh, Nermesa, please watch out for those horrid Picts! And where will you sleep? Bugs and serpents crawling all over the ground—”
Bolontes took hold of her shoulder. “Easy there . . .”
Nermesa kissed his mother on the forehead. “I’ll be careful, Mother. You don’t need to worry.”
“But we will worry,” Orena interjected, suddenly appearing at his side. One slim, alabaster arm slipped around his own. Orena kissed his cheek. Her lips were cold. “After all, you are precious to us.”
“Nermesa.” The elder woman clasped her hands together. “Why won’t you ease all our hearts and bind yourself to Orena? It wouldn’t be the marriage ceremony we planned, but a priest could be found who could quickly and officially bind you together! At least, then, she would have something of you in case . . . in case . . .”
“Now, now, dear mother,” Orena murmured, stepping from Nermesa to stroke Callista’s cheek. “Be at ease, for our sake.”
The younger Klandes was saved from answering by Quentus, who came up, and said, “Garaldo needs to see you.”
“Garaldo?” The senior knight had not been present, his duties keeping him from the ceremony. Nermesa wondered what he wanted now.
“Please excuse me,” Nermesa said to the others. “I’ve got to go now . . . but I promise I’ll be safe in the Westermarck,” he added for his mother’s sake. Nermesa gave his parents each a hug, then dutifully kissed Orena on her cheek. Without thinking, Nermesa gave Telaria, who had silently watched everything, a quick smile before bidding everyone good-bye.
As the newly anointed knight followed his servant out, he grumbled, “I’ve got to admit it, Quentus, but, for once, if Garaldo wants to chew me out for doing something wrong, I’ll be happy to suffer through it.”
The bearded man grinned. “Oh, you won’t have to suffer much, Master Nermesa. Garaldo doesn’t want to see you. I just did that because it looked like that she-wolf had nearly trapped you . . .”
“It was a lie?”
“Another minute, and you would’ve been standing before a priest, my lord. She had your mother all worked into it.”
It had been clear even to Nermesa that Orena had been talking to Lady Klandes. “I still have to marry her when I return, Quentus. My parents will demand it then.”
“Maybe, if you’re lucky, your head’ll end up on a Pict spear.”
“Don’t jest like that.” Still, although he would do his duty when he returned, the time out in the Westermarck did seem more like a reprieve. Of course, Nermesa was no fool. Eventually, there would come a point when all he would be able to think about was riding back to Tarantia, riding back to his family, his friends, and . . . yes . . . even Orena.
But that point was surely far, far off . . .
THE GREEN LANDS stretched for as far as the eye could see. Rolling hills covered in forest led into thick, grassy fields. Oaks, cedars, birches, and firs mingled freely. Flowering bushes abounded, adding highlights of color to the rich, emerald scene.
Gray clouds muted the lushness only slightly. The strength of the wilderness surrounding the newcomers was clearly strengthened by moisture such as the clouds promised and, in fact, the air was far more wet than back east.
Through the bucolic panorama moved the column, a striking contrast of silver, black, and gold against the green. Knights of Aquilonia astride their horses—both riders and animal armored well—held high and proud their long, tapering lances. Behind them, mounted men-at-arms followed suit. More than a score of wagons trailed after, and, in their wake, came those on foot—more men-at-arms, archers, pike-men, and so on.
The banner of King Conan fluttered high above, the golden lion overlooking his domain. The column followed the only road in the area, one beaten smooth long ago by those who had preceded the soldiers on it. The sof
t, consistent plod of the horses’ hooves accented the constant rattle of armor.
Ahead at last lay the fortified town of Scanaga, the destination so eagerly awaited by those in the column since they had left the capital some weeks earlier. The moment should have been one of tremendous satisfaction and pride . . . and would have been, if not for the fact that the knights had been under constant siege all day.
“Mitra! I wish I was back in Tarantia!” snapped Nermesa, smiting another mosquito on his cheek.
Quentus, the only one near enough to hear his outburst, grinned . . . then slapped a mosquito on his arm. “But the ladies love you here, my lord . . . at least these little, pointynosed ones.”
The wooden gates of Scanaga opened for them. Scanaga was the largest settlement in all the west but, compared to Nermesa’s home, was a provincial village, albeit one surrounded by a tall, imposing wooden wall. Still, despite its rustic flavor, Scanaga was an essential part of the realm, the place in which the ruling power of the west resided. True, the lands were supposedly controlled by barons who lived much farther to the east, but here a territorial judge appointed by the king himself had final say in most matters. The strength of his position was significantly augmented by the military forces under the command of General Boronius and, even though Scanaga was part of the territory of Conawaga, their authority covered Oriskonie to the north, Schohira to the south, and even Thandara, which Nermesa had yet to find on any of the maps he had been provided.
They rode in a column of two hundred men and wagons and, to his surprise, forty of those were under his command. Even under Conan, some privileges of the nobility apparently still survived. By his blood alone, Nermesa had the authority to lead these men into battle . . . at the order of General Boronius, fortunately.
Most of civilian Scanaga consisted of long, wooden buildings with angled roofs—the former barracks and supply houses for the military when they had first built the facility. Now, though, these structures were used by settlers, craftsmen, and merchants. The actual military complex lay a short distance ahead, it, too, surrounded by a high, gated wall. A fort within a fort. The notion was not so ridiculous as some might have found it, for if the Picts ever made it over the first wall, the second would give the defenders a chance to regroup or at least hold out in the hope of reinforcements.
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