“Hold your lines!” commanded Remus. “Nermesa! Move them up closer to the—”
He screamed as a blade ran him through from the back of his neck, the point coming out in front. Remus, blood spilling over his breastplate, gasped and fell.
Nermesa stared in horror at the other knight’s slayer.
One of the mounted men-at-arms.
Before he could do anything, a fiery-eyed bandit tried to pull him from his steed. Nermesa kicked at the man, then instinctively ran him through the chest. That this was the first time that he had slain another human being registered only faintly on the young Klandes. What was of far more immediate importance was survival . . . not only his own, but that of his comrades. A sudden determination came over Nermesa. He had sworn to serve Aquilonia, to serve King Conan, and he would let neither down.
But suddenly he faced an attacker of a more threatening sort. The blade that nearly sheared off his face belonged to yet another mounted man-at-arms. Nermesa did not know the soldier’s name, but that in no manner diminished the shock of discovering not one, but two traitors in the column’s midst.
Nevertheless, he met the turncoat’s attack with his own, the two trading strikes several times. The man-at-arms glared furiously at Nermesa and kept altering his attacks in the clear hope of getting past the knight’s guard. Around them, men screamed, and, out of the corner of his eye, Nermesa glimpsed more than one soldier fall to the brigands’ onslaught.
Then he managed to parry the traitor’s thrust, pushing the other’s blade high. Nermesa immediately lunged, catching his foe in the torso between sections of armor.
Dropping his weapon, the man-at-arms clutched his wound. He teetered in the saddle, then slumped dead.
Shoving past the other horse and its ghoulish burden, Nermesa went to the aid of a mounted soldier who clearly was not one of the betrayers. Bolontes’ son rode down one of the three bandits seeking the defender, then slashed at a second, lopping off an ear. As the brigand ran off howling, the man-at-arms finished off the last.
Nermesa seized the soldier by the arm. “Get everyone around the wagons! Beware of traitors!”
“Aye, my lord! I saw Benaro slay Remus, and Zuvian looked to be conversing with him afterward!”
So there were still two more to watch and who knew how many others. Nermesa swore, then said, “Just watch as best you can!”
A sudden illumination made both men pull back. In the struggle to seize one of the wagons, the brigands had accidentally set it ablaze. A soldier standing too near ran screaming, his body half in flames.
Riding swiftly, Nermesa reached the wagon in question. Already he could see that it was a total loss. The oil from the lamp had splattered it well, and each drop appeared to have started a fire of its own.
He cut down a Pict trying to leap at him from the driver’s area. Seizing a foot solder, Nermesa commanded, “Get the wagon out of the column! Steer it out toward the brigands and get the horses moving! Let them pull it into our foes!”
The soldier jumped up and seized the reins. Nermesa helped him guide the burning wagon to the right, then, as the anxious horses tugged it forward in their attempts to flee, he slapped the hind flank of the leader. This further agitated the horse and, in turn, those following.
The wagon went rolling toward the bandits. The man-at-arms leapt off, but, as he landed, a bearded brigand with a crooked grin and a half-Pict face buried an ax in his head.
Forgetting all else, Nermesa charged toward the murderer. But as he neared, a huge figure outlined by the flames dropped down from the trees between the noble and his adversary, a figure so massive that he easily stopped the knight’s horse in its tracks.
Nermesa’s mount cried out as gigantic hands crushed its throat. The knight was tossed to the side, landing hard. He rolled over and over, somehow coming to collide with the burning wagon. Licks of flame scored Nermesa’s armor and singed his face.
He looked up to see the giant approaching him. There was something not quite right about the way this monstrous brigand moved, but Nermesa could not worry about that. He desperately searched the ground for his sword, but could not find it.
A harsh, barking laugh made him look to his left, where the bearded, wild-haired brigand watched in amusement. Nermesa stared at the face and the Pictish tattoos, recalled bits of accounts he had heard . . . and knew then that it was Khatak the Butcher who so reveled in his imminent demise.
He tried scrambling back as the silent, silhouetted figure neared him, but the crumbling wagon chose that moment to tip to the side, sending a rain of burned bits of wood and ash over Nermesa. A large, flaming chunk of timber landed just to the side of his head, the heat so tremendous that the hapless noble was instantly drenched in sweat.
He heard rapid, heavy breathing and a stench like none he had ever smelled filled his nostrils. Before Nermesa realized what was happening, a huge hand roughly grabbed him by the back of his collar and dragged him up as if he weighed nothing. In the background, Khatak’s laughter took on an ominous tone.
As he was lifted, Nermesa again reached desperately for some weapon. His hands closed on the burning piece of timber, the heat almost scalding his skin inside his gauntlet. Yet, somehow the Aquilonian managed not only to hold on, but bring the flaming wood upward.
A blood-chilling howl filled the air. Nermesa’s giant foe tossed him back like a rag doll. The makeshift torch flew from his grip.
The howl continued as Nermesa tumbled into the forest. As he bounced to a stop, he heard a loud crash, and the howl receded in the opposite direction.
Dragging himself up, Nermesa stumbled his way back to the battle. As he neared, he saw that the first soldier that he had given orders to had managed to get most of the remaining fighters to the wagons, but several were still cut off.
Seizing the rusting sword of a dead bandit, Nermesa lunged toward his men, slashing at whatever foes stood in his way. He surprised a Pict about to spear a wounded man-at-arms, cutting the tattooed attacker across the chest as the latter turned to meet him. Nermesa stunned another with the flat of his blade, then leapt past to join the other defenders.
“Strengthen that line! Archers! Focus on your left!” Commands flowed from his mouth. Nermesa was not certain that anyone would listen; he only shouted out whatever made sense.
The sudden reappearance of command revitalized the Aquilonians. They pushed back the encroaching enemy, their lines straightening.
“Sir!” A rider brought a second horse to Nermesa, who gratefully accepted. Mounting, he glanced to his right, where some of the other survivors remained cut off.
Nermesa did not hesitate. He rode toward the desperate band, unaware that, as he did, the mounted man-at-arms and several foot soldiers followed.
A brigand swung wildly at him with a mace, but only managed a glancing blow. Nermesa jabbed, catching the man in the shoulder. As the bandit pulled away, Bolontes’ son made the horse rear. Front hooves kicking out, the horse bowled over two more attackers.
The brigands before him broke away as those behind Nermesa joined the struggle. To the members of the party he had come to rescue, the noble called out, “Pull back to us! Take the wounded with you! We all retreat to the wagons!”
They obeyed in quick fashion. Nermesa led them back, then surveyed the situation again. The Aquilonians were putting up such a powerful resistance that the brigands finally began retreating.
But a sharp voice hounded them back. Khatak stood near the smoldering wreckage, berating his followers and even cutting one who tried to run past him.
Something made Nermesa urge his mount forward. He only knew that, if Khatak escaped, the deaths of Remus, Commander Maxius, and the others would be for naught.
A roar went up as he advanced. The Aquilonians took his action as a command for them to take the attack to their foes. They came at the already-disorganized bandits. Several turned and fled despite Khatak’s admonitions, but some paused to halfheartedly make a stand.
&nbs
p; Nermesa all but rode over one . . . then Khatak stood before him. The brigand chieftain still wore the crooked smile, but there was a glimmer in his gaze that bespoke of a fury. With a roar, Khatak leapt at his mounted adversary.
Khatak’s ax caught the horse near the shoulder, biting deep. The animal shied, and it was all Nermesa could do to slip off before it threw him. He slapped the startled beast on the flank, sending it away.
The horse turned aside . . . and Khatak filled Nermesa’s view. His grin wider, the black-maned villain tried to chop Nermesa in two, the ax barely missing. The Aquilonian slashed, but the chieftain battered the blade from his face. Nermesa realized that Khatak was a skilled fighter and quickly backed away to think.
But Khatak would not permit him that luxury. He threw himself toward the knight, cutting an arc of death before him.
Nermesa brought up the sword as the ax head closed. It managed to stop the attack, but shattered in the process.
Without thinking, Nermesa flung the remnants in Khatak’s face. The brigand reacted instinctively, putting up one arm to deflect the object.
Nermesa lunged at his foe, sending both crashing to the ground. Khatak’s ax dropped a short distance away.
Growling like a mad wolf, the half-breed sought Nermesa’s throat. The Aquilonian did the only thing he could think of, swinging a mailed fist at Khatak’s jaw.
He struck a solid blow. Khatak grunted, and blood from his mouth splattered Nermesa’s own face.
The bandit chieftain went limp.
Gasping, the knight looked up, fully expecting another brigand to pounce on him at any moment. When he saw none, he stumbled to his feet, grabbed Khatak’s ax, and used his other hand to drag, as best he could, the unconscious villain.
The mounted man-at-arms with whom he had earlier spoken rode up to him as he and his burden neared the road. The soldier held a torch in one hand. “They’re on the run! The column’s been saved!” He peered down at what Nermesa dragged and almost dropped the torch. “Mitra! It’s Khatak! You’ve captured Khatak!”
The ax slipped from Nermesa’s grip as the full realization of what he had done finally sank in. He had indeed captured Khatak the Butcher, Khatak the Beast.
He had beaten in battle the Terror of all the Westermarck.
6
THE FORT TO which they had been ordered to deliver the supplies lay within easy reach, but with such a startling turn of events, Nermesa could not simply finish the journey and then head back. He feared that to do so would give Khatak’s men time to plan another trap, one from which the remaining Aquilonians might not escape. There remained only twenty-eight men, counting himself, and some of those were wounded. Worse, they had, in addition to the brigand leader, the two surviving traitors and five other bandits to guard.
Hoping he judged correctly, Nermesa sent eight men on with the wagons and had the rest of the party immediately reverse direction. He disliked splitting the force further, but could not think of what else to do.
He was forced to have Khatak gagged, the half-breed otherwise mouthing obscenities and threats at a breathtaking, unceasing pace. With their arms bound tight behind them and nooses linking each prisoner to the one following, Khatak and the rest were led along by Atalan, the mounted man-at-arms with whom Nermesa had worked during the battle. At the prisoners’ rear, the other remaining mounted fighter kept watch. The foot soldiers finished up the much-depleted column.
And so it was that, three days later, Nermesa rode at the head of a sight that froze settlers in their work and left guards riveted at the gates and atop the defensive wall of Scanaga. Most recognized that this was part of the troop that had gone out to restock one of the forts, and so its sudden return—with less than half its contingent and several prisoners in tow—created a great stir of concern.
Someone finally had the presence of mind to sound the alert. The gates opened and Nermesa, although weary from the grueling trek, rode in sitting as straight as he could. All those left from the original contingent moved with an air of pride, for they knew what a prize they had. With each step, more and more people began to understand just who it was behind Atalan’s horse, and concern gave way to awe.
The rest of the prisoners staggered, but Khatak walked as tall and straight as the Aquilonians. He made no sound, but his eyes burned through anyone foolish enough to meet his gaze. No one doubted that, given half a chance, he would seek to escape and wreak his vengeance.
Yet, his defiance could not much dampen the growing mood of Scanaga’s inhabitants. Cheers arose, first scattered, then becoming one loud chant. The capture of bandits and Picts was always cause for relief, but the taking of the terrifying Khatak was an event of historic proportions.
Horns blared ahead, and as Nermesa’s group neared the inner fort, the gates opened to reveal a full squadron of soldiers and knights awaiting the column’s arrival. Sentries above forgot their duties for the moment in order to jabber at one another in excitement and point at the brigand.
As he entered, Nermesa caught sight of his cousin. Caltero stood at the doorway of his quarters, mouth open in disbelief. Next to him was his Pict female, who stared round-eyed at the display, then looked at Nermesa himself with renewed appraisal. The younger Klandes suddenly felt his cheeks redden under such a perusal.
Turning, he spotted Quentus, who also wore a look of wonder at what his master had accomplished. He finally shook his head and grinned at Nermesa.
Nermesa called a halt before Boronius’s headquarters. A guard at the general’s door tapped on it once and almost immediately the Boar stepped out. He wore his full armor, even his helmet. The commander of the west kept his eyes on Nermesa at all times as he descended the steps. Boronius wore an expression that Nermesa found unfathomable, some cross between relief, fury, and many other emotions.
“Nermesa of Klandes,” the Boar muttered with a shake of his head. “What’ve you gone and done?”
Bolontes’ son was taken aback. “Sir?”
But the general had already moved on to the prize Nermesa had brought back with him. “Khatak . . .” Boronius suddenly grinned. He seized the brigand by the hair and pulled him close. “There’s a lot of people who’d like to see your head decorating a pike, half-breed, just like you did to many of their kin . . .”
Khatak’s only response was a burning glare to which the Boar seemed entirely oblivious.
The general suddenly released the prisoner’s head. With a derisive snort, Boronius loudly continued, “But, that pleasure will be others’! Tarantia will soon hear of this, and I don’t doubt that King Conan will be granting you a visit to his court before long . . . and then to the executioner’s block shortly after!” He turned from the brigand, dismissing him as if the latter were inconsequential. “Take him away!”
As soldiers dragged Khatak off, the Boar eyed the two traitors. Unlike the bandit, they looked back at their former commander with far less bravado. The worst thing that one could do was betray the Aquilonian military, especially in the west, where even the slightest thing could mean the deaths of many.
“I should hang you here and now . . . and let the birds peck away at your dangling corpses for weeks to come . . . but that’s also a pleasure the king might enjoy.” He stared the two down. One man-at-arms shook his head; the other closed his eyes. “But you’ve got a chance to escape Traitor’s Common,” Boronius went on, referring to the area outside the capital where the bodies of those like the pair were left to rot in dishonor. “Mayhaps you can even buy your way out of the Iron Tower, if you cooperate with us.”
One man quickly nodded. General Boronius summoned over Caltero. “Take these scum and see what information you can wring from them! The same goes for the brigand trash with them! Give me something, Caltero!”
“It shall be done!” snapped Nermesa’s cousin, as serious as his commander concerning the heinous situation. “Guards!”
As the prisoners were herded away by Caltero’s squad, Boronius returned his attention to Nerme
sa. “Klandes, I want you to clean that road filth off you and get some food. And while you’re doing that, lad, think very carefully about all that happened! I’ll be wanting to see you in my quarters right after to hear everything in detail! Understood?”
“Yes, General!”
“Dismissed!” Boronius hesitated, then, almost as an afterthought, added, “Oh . . . and good work, lad.”
“Thank you . . .”
As the Boar retreated into his quarters, Quentus and others came up to congratulate the arrivals. Nermesa accepted backslaps and handshakes as he dismounted, but his thoughts were on his impending report to his superior. Boronius had looked none too pleased about the entire incident, and the knight did not understand why.
Quentus put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him and his horse from the well-wishers. “Come, Master Nermesa! You heard him! We’d better get you taken care of as quickly as possible! Wouldn’t want to leave the Boar waiting!”
Back in his own meager quarters, they quickly removed Nermesa’s grimed and bloodied armor. Quentus brought him a basin of water, and the young Klandes immediately washed his face. The cold water felt good against his skin and shook away some of the cobwebs. He began to recall things with tremendous detail. Sharpened images from the battle replayed. Nermesa saw everything again—
“Mitra save me!” His legs collapsed. He fell against the basin, spilling the water on the wooden floor.
Quentus seized his arm, but Nermesa shook him off. Gasping, Bolontes’ son shivered. He had seen men slain . . . and worse, he had slain men. Only now, here in the safety of Scanaga, did it all hit him. For all his dreams of serving the king and Aquilonia as a knight, the realities had not sunk in until the attack.
“Master Nermesa?”
The noble fought down his shaking. Slowly, the horrific memories receded. They did not disappear, but at least they faded . . . a little. Nermesa exhaled and finally allowed Quentus to help him up.
The God in the Moon Page 8
