The God in the Moon

by Richard A. Knaak

  The fear that some Pict or brigand had purposely dropped the serpent in the building came to mind, but Nermesa quickly saw that such an act would likely have been impossible. They could not have hoped that the creature would go to the correct victim. No, for this to have been some fiendish plot, the perpetrator would have almost had to stand over Nermesa and lay the serpent on him.

  Too foolish, he decided. The incident had merely been an almost-unfortunate accident. No one, not even the traitor they still sought, could have arranged this.

  Yet, Nermesa could not sleep, not immediately, for the encounter made him think of the coming day and the journey to Tarantia. He was not a superstitious man by nature, but the serpent felt like an omen. It was a long way to the capital, and there were men who would seek to free Khatak, no matter what the cost.

  Men far more dangerous than the most poisonous viper . . .

  8

  THE IMPORTANCE OF Khatak’s arriving in Tarantia was emphasized by the more than two hundred men escorting him and the other prisoners east. General Boronius had judiciously picked men from wherever he could at short notice so as to not weaken any of the outposts. Still, more than a few settlers clearly watched the column depart with mixed emotions. Most were glad to see Khatak off to his doom, but the sooner the soldiers returned, the better. Every good sword was needed out west.

  Some twenty knights rode with the column, and while most had many more years of experience than Nermesa, they deferred to his command without the slightest rancor. Another forty mounted men-at-arms—Quentus and Atalan among them—followed, with seventy soldiers of various types making up the rest. There were also three wagons in the center. The first held the brigand chieftain and the other captives, while the second and third supplied the column’s needs.

  The banner of King Conan fluttered high and proud as they traveled, and the mood among the men was high. Nermesa masked his own concerns with a look of determination befitting what the rest expected of the one who had defeated and captured the terrible Khatak. Yet, despite his doubts, he could not help but glance back on occasion and be secretly awed by the might under his command. Such numbers were enough to make any villain pause, and the farther east they got, the less and less opportunity anyone seeking to free Khatak would have.

  Quentus rode near enough so that the two could talk. Nermesa’s former servant had full confidence in him, which helped ease the noble’s mind a bit.

  “Nothing’s going to happen,” he assured Nermesa not for the first time. Quentus kept his voice low, so as not to draw attention to his friend’s concerns. “I’ve talked to some of the others. This direction’s been pretty much cleared of all but the smallest bands of thieves, and they wouldn’t risk their necks for anyone, even the great and powerful Khatak.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “Atalan told me again how you saved them, Nermesa. Your father’s going to be truly proud when he hears the full story.” The bearded fighter grinned. “And make no mistake about it! I’ll be sure to tell him if you don’t!”

  “He likely knows already.” Of that, Nermesa was certain. Either Boronius or General Pallantides or both had no doubt sent word to Bolontes of his achievements. The true question was whether the senior Klandes would be so proud. He had tried to keep his son from just such situations. For that matter, what would happen between the pair when Nermesa confronted him with what he knew of his father’s maneuverings behind the scenes?

  Escorting a dangerous villain across half the realm began to seem the easier of young Klandes’ tasks.

  To reach Tarantia, they would have to cross the Shirki River by use of the bridge at Galparan. General Boronius had decided on the man-made crossing rather than the natural stone bridge to the south, near the fortified city of Tanasul, trusting to Aquilonian construction over nature. Nermesa had been commanded to give his papers only to the officer in charge at Galparan, then proceed on. The more the prisoners were kept from other people, the less chance of something happening, so the Boar thought. Nermesa could hardly disagree.

  After the Shirki, they would continue east—or rather, southeast, in truth—along the flat wide valley of the same name to another river crossing, then on to the plains of Tarantia. The latter half of the trek was, to Nermesa’s belief, the point where the column could begin to relax its vigilance ever so slightly.

  Of course, before all that, they first had to get through the Westermarck and the Bossonian Marches.

  They made good time the first day, Nermesa eager to make the best of the weather and road. When he finally called a halt, he placed Khatak’s wagon in the center of a circular formation with more than a dozen guards in eyeshot of the brigand himself. The half-breed eyed the sentries with wry amusement, but his expression turned darker when, at one point, he and Nermesa locked gazes.

  The knight met Khatak’s glare squarely. “We’re a day closer to Tarantia.”

  The bandit chieftain scowled. “A day closer to your doom, Aquilonian.”

  Yet, despite Khatak’s threats, nothing happened that evening or the next. The western edge of the Bossonian Marches soon beckoned.

  “Will we have any trouble with the Bossonians?” Quentus asked of him as the column made camp.

  Nermesa shook his head. “The papers from General Boronius will give us passage, and he said we could rely on the Bossonians as much as we can our own.”

  “Strange, though, that they live in Aquilonia but aren’t subjects of it.”

  “General Boronius also said not to forget that fact when we speak with them.”

  Representatives from the nearest town came just as the soldiers finished their meals. Their leader stood several inches shorter than Nermesa, but was more broad-shouldered. He, like the rest, was clad in simple but well-crafted brown-and-green garb more suited for farming or hunting. However, lest anyone think that the Bossonians were not here on serious business, one only had to notice the longbows slung over the shoulders of each.

  “Hail to you, Aquilonian,” greeted the head Bossonian in an earthy voice matching his stolid appearance. “I am called Ranaric. We’ve had word of your coming.”

  His accent was strong despite his excellent command of Nermesa’s language. The knight met Ranaric’s steady, brown eyes and read in them a man he could trust. “Hail to you, Ranaric. I am Nermesa of Klandes, commander of this column and serving under General Boronius.”

  “How is the Boar?”

  Behind him, Quentus chuckled. Ranaric smiled at Nermesa’s expression. Ranaric clearly knew Boronius well.

  “He sends this personal note.” The knight handed the Bossonian a small letter that the general had written for this very man. Nermesa had been ordered not to give it to anyone else.

  Ranaric tucked it in his leather belt. “And from you?”

  Nermesa produced the orders. The Bossonian leader read them over carefully, clearly an educated man despite living in such a frontier land.

  With a nod, Ranaric gave back the documents. “A dangerous business, this. Will you visit our town?”

  Despite the fact that Bossonian towns were well fortified, Nermesa had been ordered to stay clear of them. Even among Ranaric’s folk, there were those who might prove sympathetic to Khatak.

  “I must decline, thank you.”

  Ranaric shrugged. “Then I must at least promise you the protection of our men.”

  Nermesa was about to remind Ranaric that he had over two hundred trained fighters, including archers of their own, but several of the men behind the Bossonian leader immediately began fanning out in a manner that showed they knew the area far better than any Aquilonian. Within seconds, they had vanished among the trees, leaving no trace. Yet Nermesa could sense that the archers were watching.

  “Nothing will harm you in this forest,” promised Ranaric with the assurance of one who knows that he speaks the utter truth. He bowed to Nermesa, then, all alone, turned in the direction of the distant town.

  “But we can’t allow you to journ
ey back alone!” the knight insisted.

  Without looking back, Ranaric answered, “I will be no more alone than you.”

  Which meant, Nermesa realized, that more Bossonian archers watched the land ahead. If they were safe anywhere on this entire journey, it was clearly here in the Marches.

  Several of the men who had watched the tableau unfold now eyed the foliage above. Quentus shook his head. “’Tis true what they say about them! Like shadows!”

  “Which in no manner means that we can relax our guard. I want everyone to continue to keep a sharp lookout.”

  Whether because of the Bossonians’ presence or the Aquilonians’ continued vigilance, the night passed without even the hint of trouble. Come the morning, one of Ranaric’s archers suddenly materialized out of the forest to report to Nermesa.

  “All passed well,” he grunted. “Ranaric bids you good journey.”

  They saw none of the other Bossonians, but as Nermesa had his column mount up and continue on, he remained aware that the party was constantly scrutinized.

  “The Marches are fairly narrow,” the man-at-arms Atalan informed him as they rode. “By late tomorrow, we should be at the eastern border—the unofficial one, of course. After that, Galparan’s the next civilized stop. Once across the Shirki, we are as good as home, sir.”

  “When I see Tarantia ahead on the plains, we’ll be as good as home,” Nermesa replied.

  The forest began to thin out some, which comforted him. Too well Nermesa recalled the night of Khatak’s capture. The fewer trees, the less opportunity for surprise by the brigand’s cohorts.

  Yet their prime prisoner seemed not at all put out by the growing odds against his escape. Khatak continued to ignore all save Nermesa, to whom he offered death with every glance.

  Reluctant as he was to call a halt, Nermesa finally did so. Despite more hospitable surroundings, he did not reduce the number of sentries around the wagon. Even if the unknown traitor was in their midst, it would be impossible for him to get past all of the safeguards.

  “Can you not rest yet?” asked Quentus, as Nermesa brooded by one of the fires. “He’ll be going nowhere, especially not this night. If you had any more soldiers standing guard over him, I’d think he was the new king of Aquilonia!”

  “I just can’t shake the feeling that something will still happen.”

  “We’re almost out of the forest, and the trees are thin enough that no band of cutthroats could sneak up on us, even in the dark.”

  “I know, but I just want to be . . . careful.”

  Quentus shook his head and walked off to get some water. Nermesa sat staring at the flames, unable to shake his concern. When the foliage of a nearby tree briefly rustled, he all but leapt to his feet, one hand already reaching for his sword. Yet, despite a serious survey of the area in question, Nermesa saw nothing. It was a scene that he had already repeated more than once this evening.

  Quentus brought him some of the salted rabbit stew that served as the column’s chief source of sustenance. Nermesa ate in silence, gaze constantly shifting from the dark surroundings to the activities of the camp. Despite his worst fears, however, he saw nothing to worry about and, after making a final walk around the perimeter, finally forced himself to go to sleep.

  To his frustration, the dreams that came to him were all ones in which Khatak escaped, leaving all dead but Nermesa. The knight, his arms limp, could only watch helplessly as the brigand and an army of followers ransacked the entire kingdom of Aquilonia.

  After what was perhaps the thousandth repetition, Nermesa finally woke. Scowling, he left the camp just far enough to deal with matters of nature, then headed back to his bedroll.

  But with the memory of his dreams still fresh, Nermesa decided to make another check of the prisoners. Perhaps when he saw that all was as it should be, his slumber would become more peaceful.

  He grew encouraged when he noted that the first sentries were still in place. They saluted Nermesa as he approached.

  “Everything quiet?”

  “Aye, sir,” answered the senior one. “That mad dog must sleep with his eyes open, though! I’ve not heard anyone who’s seen him shut them once on this whole trek.”

  “Oh?” Steeling himself, Nermesa went to the wagon and peered inside.

  Snores emanated from most of the prisoners, but, as the man-at-arms had said, Khatak sat up straight. Worse, he stared directly at Nermesa, and any thought that the bandit did sleep with his eyes open was eradicated by a short but harsh chuckle.

  Nermesa pulled back. Had Khatak been waiting all this time just for this encounter? Impossible . . . and yet . . .

  Approaching the guard again, Nermesa asked, “He sits like that . . . all the time?”

  “Aye.”

  What was it Khatak expected . . . or was he merely bluffing?

  The branches above rustled, causing Nermesa to jump. Fortunately, the sentries, having also reacted, failed to notice his lapse. Nermesa silently cursed. Khatak still had such an effect on his foes even while imprisoned.

  “Keep wary,” Nermesa commanded the sentries. He turned back toward his waiting bedroll—

  A heavy thud echoed in the woods to the north.

  Nermesa immediately pointed at three of the guards. “You! Come with me! The rest of you stay vigilant! This may be nothing, but then again . . .”

  He summoned other soldiers as he hurried along. Several men woke as he and the others ran past. Seizing their weapons, the sleepers leapt to their feet.

  Grabbing a torch from a guard on the perimeter, Nermesa led the way into the forest. A dozen men now followed him, with more on their way.

  The knight paused to listen, but only the silence of the dark greeted his ears. He knew that he was near the spot from which the sound had come, but the torchlight revealed nothing out of the ordinary.

  Unwilling to take a chance, Nermesa led his growing search party on. Such a noise could not have been caused by nothing. He would not leave until he had discovered the reason.

  “Over here!” cried someone to his right.

  Following the voice, Nermesa saw Quentus ahead. His friend stood over a large mound with a frighteningly familiar shape. As Nermesa arrived, Quentus turned the grisly form over.

  “’Tis Iolon!” gasped another soldier. “But he was left guarding the far perimeter on the southern side!”

  “His back’s cracked in half, and his throat’s torn out!” said another. The stunned soldier gazed wide-eyed at their surroundings. “Some demon got him!”

  “Silence!” Nermesa spun around, first surveying the forest, then intently studying the treetops. There was a broken place in the foliage above and, when, the knight looked down again, he saw that there were twigs and leaves caught in Iolin’s armor.

  But what could possibly have carried off an entire man, especially one clad in plate, without him being able to cry out?

  Then, something moved in the trees above. All eyes skyward, the Aquilonians froze.

  Behind Nermesa, a soldier cried out.

  The search party turned in time to catch a glimpse of the man’s boots as he vanished upward into the thick greenery.

  Two archers immediately readied arrows, but had no target. The missing soldier’s scream cut off harshly.

  The tree next to Nermesa shook and, as he raised his sword to defend himself, a heavy object dropped on him.

  “Nermesa!” Quentus leapt to aid him, but it was too late. Under the massive weight, Nermesa sprawled on the ground, stunned. His torch went flying. A face rolled against his . . . a face that, even in the dark, he could see was staring fearfully even in death.

  The soldier who had just been seized.

  “Get that off him!” Quentus demanded. “Atalan! Douse that fire!”

  The weight was hefted away. Nermesa pushed himself up on his elbows and watched with sickened heart as the others laid the second body by the first.

  Then, the foliage rustled again.

  “My sword!” h
e demanded. As someone handed to him, Nermesa also ordered, “Stay away from the trees! Archers, to me!”

  Others had joined the search, some of them fortunately with bows. Nermesa now had five archers, but was that enough?

  Something else suddenly occurred to him. This bizarre attack was too coincidental for his tastes. “Atalan! Make certain that the prison wagon’s still secure!”

  “Aye!”

  More leaves moved.

  Two of the archers immediately fired at the location, but clearly to no effect. As they readied their bows again, the other three waited for a chance.

  A monstrous roar echoed in the night.

  A roar very close to them.

  “Watch out!” a man-at-arms shouted. There was a crashing sound and what seemed like half the tree above Nermesa came tumbling down. He leapt aside, but one of the archers was not so fortunate. The heavy wood bowled him over and crushed in his skull.

  And in the midst of the chaos, a gargantuan thing landed on the ground in front of Nermesa.

  There was no torch near enough to enable him to see the figure clearly, but the same stench the knight had smelled previously was identification enough. Here was the bestial brigand who had almost slain him before Khatak’s capture.

  Although Nermesa tried to bring his blade up quickly, the fur-clad figure moved swifter. A hand as huge as the Aquilonian’s head seized him by the collar.

  “Nermesa!” cried Quentus. “No!”

  The bearded fighter dove toward his friend, sword slashing at the giant. His blade caught the attacker’s arm, but the blow was glancing.

  Yet, it was still enough to infuriate the fearsome figure. With a snarl, he tossed Nermesa hard against a tree. The knight collided with the trunk and all but blacked out.

  With terrible ease, Quentus’s opponent seized the man-at-arms by the wrist. Pulled forward, the former servant lost his balance. He fell into the waiting arms.

  “Save him!” Nermesa managed. He tried to join the struggle, but his head pounded, and his legs would not work yet.

  Three other soldiers closed in on the pair. The mysterious bandit placed one hand on the side of Quentus’s head . . . and twisted it sharply.