“I—I’m all right, Quentus. Thank you.”
“Master Nermesa, what—”
The knight’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t call me that, anymore.”
His companion frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“Never call me ‘master’! Not now, not ever again! I release you from all obligations! I free you of all that binds you to House Klandes. You’ll call neither me nor any other man ‘master’!”
Quentus opened his mouth, then closed it. After a few seconds of brooding, he quietly picked up the basin and put it aside. “We’d better hurry. The general will be waiting.”
“Did you hear me, Quentus? You don’t have to help me, either. Just pack your things and get back to Tarantia—”
“And leave my friend and brother behind.” For the first time, Quentus glared at his lifelong companion. “I could’ve ridden off on the way here if I’d so chosen, Mas—Nermesa! I am as much Klandes as you, and we’ve grown up together! Now, enough of this talk! The Boar doesn’t like to be kept waiting!”
Although they continued their task in silence, Nermesa felt both relief and gratitude. He had been afraid that Quentus might actually go but knew that his friend had deserved the chance to decide for himself. When they finished with their work, Nermesa impulsively clasped Quentus’s hand, then marched off to give his report to the general.
As Nermesa walked, soldiers continued to come up and congratulate him. While shaking hands with one, Nermesa happened to glance at Caltero’s quarters and saw that his cousin’s Pict woman again watched him. When she noticed him staring back, she lowered her eyes and smiled shyly before slipping back inside.
Boronius awaited his arrival. The bearded knight sat ready behind the table, a half-finished note to Tarantia already lying before him. He set the silver stylus down as Nermesa stood at attention.
“There’s the Nermesa of Klandes I expected the day you arrived,” Boronius cryptically remarked. “Clean and pampered, like so many young nobles.” The Boar’s brow furrowed deep. “But you’re not that now . . . and you never were, I think, despite what I was told.”
“General?”
A flask of wine sat on the commander’s left, with it two matching silver goblets that had seen better days. General Boronius poured some rich red wine that in no manner could be mistaken for a local vintage into one goblet . . . then into the second, too.
“Brought for me at some expense from Tarantia, lad. Join me in a drink.”
Somewhat disconcerted, Nermesa reached over and took the second cup. Boronius leaned back and, with his goblet, saluted the knight. The veteran fighter took a deep swallow, then stared down Nermesa until the latter finally did the same.
“The least of your rewards for such a feat,” explained the Boar. “I’ve hunted Khatak. Great nobles and veteran commanders have hunted Khatak. Some of them found him, much to their despair. You, though, you caught him and lived to tell the tale.”
“It was chance, General, nothing more! Chance!”
“Chance is the true commander on the field of battle.” Putting down his goblet, Boronius indicated a chair to the side. “Drag that over where you are. I want you relaxed while you tell me everything. Everything.”
Once seated, Nermesa described the incident as well as he could remember. Again, the terrible images of men being slaughtered filled his thoughts, but he kept, as best he could, any of his emotions from showing through.
Boronius listened silently, eyes never straying from Nermesa’s own. He wrote nothing down and gave no indication of belief or the lack thereof.
“Finish your wine,” General Boronius ordered, when Nermesa had completed his retelling. As the younger knight drank, the bearded commander sat in obvious thought.
Finally, the Boar said, “I’ve heard different.”
“General?” Nermesa went over the details in his head, recalling nothing misspoken.
“I’ve had five men in here already, Atalan among them. You remember him? Good. He’s an honest sort, especially, but every one of them pretty much agrees on what happened . . . and that you played a far greater role than you yourself described, Klandes.”
“I’ve told all as it happened . . .”
This brought a snort from the Boar. “Humility. Not all that common among the nobility, Klandes. In fact, damn near impossible to find. Well, Pallantides and the king will hear everything, I promise you that.”
Nermesa was not quite certain he liked the way Boronius said the last, but there was no protest he could make. He set down the empty goblet and waited for the general to dismiss him.
But Boronius was not yet done with Nermesa. “One last thing, Klandes. Something I feel’s due to you after this. I want you to know, though, that it was done with good intentions.”
“I don’t—”
“Hear me out first,” the Boar said with a growl. “This concerns your father.”
“My father?” Nermesa had no idea of what the senior knight spoke. How did the elder Klandes fit into the conversation?
“You’ve not much idea about Bolontes’ past, do you?”
Nermesa said nothing, assuming the general had a good reason for asking such a thing.
Boronius nodded. “Smart answer. Most children don’t pay much attention, but pretend that they know everything about their parents . . . usually in a bad way. Truth be told, your father was among the most honored men in our realm’s military . . . and one of the most controversial.”
“Him?” Nermesa imagined his staid parent, who always seemed to follow traditions.
“Bolontes of Klandes served two kings, the tyrant Namedides and Namedides’ father, Argaen II. Argaen was nothing like his son, by the way, and there are those who firmly believe he was poisoned by Namedides.”
Such rumors still abounded, and no one in the court of King Conan saw any reason to put an end to them. Nermesa grew anxious, picturing his father as a loyal servant of the despised Namedides. It certainly explained Bolontes’ hesitancy to have his son serve the barbarian who had slain the tyrant.
“Calm yourself, Klandes. Don’t assume.” The Boar poured himself more wine. After a sip, he continued, “Namedides would have had your father’s head twice if not for Bolontes’ reputation. He dared not touch him although the temptation was always there. Bolontes, in turn, was a traditionalist. He despised Namedides, but the bastard was of the bloodline of the kings of Aquilonia, and so your father did nothing despite much secret urging. When his brother died, he took the prestige he had gained and used it, during some particularly troubled times that followed, to preserve House Klandes . . . and the infant son he’d just been blessed with.”
“What . . . what happened, then?”
“When the Cimmerian started his bid for the throne, a gathering of nobles called on Bolontes to stand up for Namedides in the name of the ancient Houses and his lineage. This could’ve rallied hesitant troops and supporters. But Bolontes refused outright. If he hadn’t, Conan might still have won, but it would’ve been an even more terrible struggle, and there’s no telling if Aquilonia would’ve survived the aftermath.”
Nermesa sat stunned. None of this had he ever heard from anyone, let alone his parents. Caltero, who probably knew something of it, had remained silent, too. “But . . . what does this all have to do with me?”
“When Bolontes commanded in the military, he came to know many young soldiers who admired him, some of them not even Aquilonians. I was one. Pallantides was another. You’ll likely not be surprised to know at this point that Count Trocero of Poitain is a friend of his as well. I’d wager that even King Conan understands the part Bolontes played in tipping matters at the end.”
“My father knows all these men?”
“Aye . . . and so asked Pallantides and me to protect you, his only son and heir, as best we could, when he knew that you would be sent out here. When he found out about you joining, lad, he contacted us immediately. And, knowing him, we did just as he asked.”
W
hich explained to Nermesa why his first mission in the Westermarck had been the most routine possible despite what General Boronius had said prior to it. Nermesa could scarcely believe how his father had manipulated matters behind the scenes. While on one level he could understand why Bolontes had done it, on a more basic level Nermesa felt a fury growing. He had been played so easily!
“You’ll dampen down what I see in those eyes of yours if you know what’s best for you, Klandes!” The Boar rose. “Your father did what he thought right, whether it was or not, to protect you. You don’t think you’d do the same for your heir?” He shrugged. “Besides, the point’s moot after what you did. Pallantides and I built you up to your face so that you’d never suspect what we planned, but I can see that we pretty much underestimated you.”
“General, I—”
Boronius waved him off. “I’ve got a report to finish. You’ve done well, Klandes. Very well. This won’t be the end of the matter.”
Nermesa saw that he would not be allowed to say anything. In truth, he was not certain just what he planned to say. What the general had told him had left the younger knight utterly disconcerted.
The guards snapped to attention as he departed. Other fighters, be they knights or foot soldiers, treated him almost as if he were Boronius. Word was spreading quickly . . . too quickly.
It was not only the Aquilonians who acted differently. Some of the other Pict females who stayed at the fort had gathered by one doorway. When they saw Nermesa, they giggled like the young women admiring the palace guards back in Tarantia. Despite himself, Nermesa’s chest swelled at the admiration.
“Master warrior?”
The feminine voice stopped Nermesa in his tracks. He looked to his left to discover Khati. She wore simple, circular breastplates that did little to obscure her glory and the slim loincloth in which he had first seen her. The other Pict females became vague memories in her presence.
“Master warrior,” she repeated, gazing up at him with half-lidded eyes. “The spirit of your totem is truly great . . .”
Nermesa had not been aware that she spoke such excellent Aquilonian, but it did not overly surprise him. After all, she had spent so much time in Scanaga, especially in Caltero’s company.
“Thank you,” he replied, not knowing what else to say.
She reached with perfect, tapering fingers to touch the emblem of Klandes on his surcoat. “The lion,” Khati murmured, her lips pursing as she traced the animal. “Strength. Determination. Power.”
Even through his thick garments, her touch unsettled Nermesa as no other woman’s had, save Orena’s. However, where the Lady Lenaro’s had repelled him, the Pict’s did the opposite.
He suddenly recalled just what she was and, more important, whose she was. “Where’s Caltero?”
“He still talks with prisoners. Much time it will take. Very much time.”
The last she said with the clear hint of invitation. Nermesa gently disengaged himself. “If he asks of me, I go to rest. I’m feeling very tired and wish not to be disturbed.”
She did not hide her disappointment, and her pout made Nermesa almost regret turning down her offer. Nonetheless, he bowed to her—only afterward realizing that he had treated a savage as he would have a lady of the court—and hurried off to his quarters in the hopes that, when next he stepped out, the world would be more as it had been before he had taken his fateful journey.
7
YET, NERMESA’S HOPE was not to be, for, if anything, the days that followed only saw further glorification of his questionable achievements. Word spread throughout Scanaga, throughout all of Conawaga and beyond. The territorial judge, an elder statesman by the name of Flavian, summoned both Boronius and Nermesa to him for yet another retelling of the events. Standing before the desk of the cadaverous, black-gowned man, the general went over the betrayal of the party and the capture of Khatak as Atalan and the rest of the survivors had claimed the situations had taken place. Nermesa was called upon only to verify details, not tell his own, somewhat differing version.
Flavian awarded him the lion cross, a medal of honor issued by King Conan that resembled the roaring head of the golden beast, and gave lesser honors to Atalan and various others. Nermesa wanted nothing more than to hide the medal, but by the judge’s “request,” he had to wear it over his breastplate for the following week.
General Octavio returned a few days later, and, after jesting that Nermesa had deprived him of his prey, congratulated the young knight. He also reported that the Picts had suddenly grown quite silent, even withdrawing from some lands recently contested. Khatak had been a tremendous influence on them, and his capture had evidently demoralized the tribes.
“Haven’t seen the wilderness this peaceful since King Conan himself was out here, before he seized the throne. He’d beaten the savages at their own game, putting the fear in them like few others . . .” Octavio smiled. “Likely more than a few chiefs know your name now.”
That suggestion filled Nermesa with a new anxiety, one in which he imagined every creak at night to be some Pict who had slipped by all the guards and now walked upon the roof over the knight’s head, seeking entrance. Nermesa had also not forgotten Khatak’s brutish minion. At best, he had been burned somewhat, but surely such a strong villain would soon regain his strength and seek revenge . . . and the freedom of the brigand chieftain.
As for Khatak himself, he had said nothing since his mouth had been ungagged. Instead, according to all reports Nermesa heard, the wild-haired bandit merely stared and smiled that crooked smile, as if expecting something dire to happen at any moment.
Despite dogged interrogation by Caltero, the two traitorous knights could only tell that they had been paid by a hooded figure whose voice they could not recognize save that it was male. The general decided to leave further questioning to those more adept back in Tarantia.
“Terrible business, this,” remarked Nermesa’s cousin when next they were alone. He had sent away Khati so that the two knights could talk undistracted. “Aquilonians betraying their own kind for base gain! I recommended to the Boar that he just string up the two traitors, but he knows better, I suppose.”
“They might still tell us something. I’m sure the king’s interrogators will do better.”
Caltero took a sip of wine, brooding over the matter. “Yes, I suppose they will.”
“I, for one, will be very happy when they and the brigands are all on their way to the capital.” Nermesa nursed his wine, wanting to keep his head clear for as long as Khatak and the other prisoners remained the charges of Scanaga.
“Can’t say as I blame you. The sooner that scoundrel is away from here, the better! The Boar’s posted extra guards on both walls and around his cell. Wouldn’t do to let such a prize escape, eh?”
But Khatak remained the prisoner of the fort for over three weeks while General Boronius inquired what Tarantia desired him to do. Khatak’s foul deeds had long been constant news in the capital, to the point where some people imagined him skulking around in their own homes. Tarantia would wish to have their say in his fate.
Nermesa tried to stay away from the prisoner, but, eventually he was drawn to the cell. The sentries outside saluted him, and when he requested to see Khatak, he was instantly granted access, which surprised him.
The knight had expected the brigand to act like a caged animal, pacing back and forth constantly. But when he confronted Khatak, it was to see the black-maned villain simply sitting and staring at him.
“So . . .” The eyes brightened as Nermesa had seen a cat’s do before lunging at its dinner. “You come, Nermesa of the lion totem.”
It so startled the Aquilonian that Khatak would know his name that he could not prevent himself from gaping. This brought a chuckle from the captive, who leapt to his feet with the grace of the feline to which he had just referred.
“Welcome to this one’s humble home,” Khatak said with a bow, again chuckling.
No longer certain why h
e had come but not wishing to let the prisoner see him flee in anxiety, Nermesa stepped closer to the cage. He warily watched the figure within, not wanting to risk an attack.
Khatak lunged.
He flattened himself against the bars, stretching as hard as he could to reach Nermesa, who had stopped dead in his tracks. The bandit chieftain’s grimy fingers missed the knight by more than a foot, but Khatak did not seem disappointed. Rather, he was again amused by his captor’s reaction.
“So you will know where it’s safe to stand, my friend.”
Silently cursing at how well Khatak could read him, Nermesa stayed where he was, studying the prisoner. Khatak looked no worse for wear despite the interrogations. There were scars, yes, and a few more bruises, but little else. Boronius wanted Khatak more or less intact for the journey to Tarantia. Once there, whatever happened during those interrogations would be out of the general’s hands.
The brigand abruptly stepped back and began a short jig. He laughed loud at Nermesa’s startlement, then said, “Have I amused you now, friend?”
“I didn’t come for your jests.”
“No?” Once more, Khatak became a predator. He leaned close to the bars. “Then, why?”
“You could save yourself a lot of pain by telling them whatever you know about your band or what the Picts might be up to,” Nermesa responded somewhat lamely. He had not had any real reason for coming, that much he realized now, save to assure himself that Khatak was still secure.
The bearded half-breed chuckled, a sound that already grated on Nermesa’s nerves. “The people of the forest are creeping up on the fort. They wish the heads of all! My men, they are robbing all caravans! The wilderness is filled with dangers!”
Letting out a loud whoop, Khatak spun around and returned to the bench on which he had been sitting. As he dropped, he folded his arms and positioned himself as he had when the knight had first entered.
Lips tight together, Nermesa turned to leave.
“Son of the lion . . .”
The young Klandes paused and, despite himself, looked over his shoulder at the brigand.
The God in the Moon Page 9
