A horrific cracking sound accompanied the action.
“Nooo!” Nermesa staggered forward, aware that it was already too late to help.
With a mad roar, the giant effortlessly tossed Quentus’s limp form at his nearest foes. Then, before anyone else could close with him, he leapt up to the branches, pulling himself out of sight in less than the blink of an eye.
Two of the remaining archers managed belated shots, but to no avail.
Nermesa slashed at the area under where his friend’s murderer had last stood. Tears streaming down his face, he growled, “Come back, damn you! Come back! I’m here! Here!”
But the leaves did not shiver, and no giant leapt upon him. The area was silent save for his harsh breathing.
In frustration, Nermesa finally thrust his sword point down into the earth. He went to Quentus’s side, hoping despite everything that his childhood friend might still breathe.
But life had already long fled the former servant. His head lolled to the side, the broken bone visible through the flesh. Death had been instantaneous, but that brought no relief to Nermesa.
“You came out to protect me . . .” Bolontes’ son murmured. “But, when it came to it, I should’ve protected you . . . and didn’t.”
Fists tight, Nermesa looked up . . . and thought of Khatak.
“Carry the bodies back!” he snapped. “But gently!” Seizing his sword, Nermesa added, “We’ll give them a decent burial come the morning!”
With that, he trod off, only one thought left to him. Quentus’s death—the deaths of all the men—could be laid at the feet of the brigand chieftain. It was his horrific henchman who had so brutally slain the soldiers . . . and now Nermesa intended that Khatak pay for that act, regardless of orders.
His expression must have been terrible to see, for the first sentry he came across gaped and backed up a step before saluting. Nermesa ignored him, heading directly for the prison wagon.
Several soldiers moved about the area. Atalan was speaking with one of the original guards, who looked harried. The wagon looked untouched, which surprised but did not deter Nermesa.
The senior man-at-arms noticed him and saluted. “Did you find the—”
“Khatak!” Nermesa spat. “Is he still in there?”
“Yes, but—”
Bolontes’ son strode past him without another word, concerned only with reaching the brigand. Seizing a lit lamp hanging on the wagon, he looked inside. The other prisoners grouped in the back of the cage, their postures indicating a fear of the lone figure seated cross-legged near the door.
In the lamp’s light, Khatak gave him the crooked smile. The half-breed’s eyes glittered like a cat’s. The brigand chieftain looked unruffled, even relaxed, which made Nermesa all the more furious.
“The son of the lion,” greeted Khatak.
Nermesa started for the captive, fully intending to run him through . . . but then hesitated. Butchering a caged prisoner was something he would have expected of the man before him. Nermesa was tempted to unlock the cage and give Khatak a weapon with which to defend himself, but that might be just what the bandit had been hoping for.
“My friend is dead because of you!” he rumbled.
“Because of this one? But I have been sleeping here so restfully all night.” Khatak grinned. “Well . . . there was some noise that woke me. Thought it was singing . . .”
He meant the cries of Quentus and the others. Nermesa felt his blood boiling again but fought it down. Khatak wanted him angry and careless.
Gritting his teeth, Bolontes’ son looked over the cage. At first glance, it appeared untouched despite the damage to the wagon’s top. One of the bars above had been bent a little, but that was all.
“Your friend . . .” Khatak interjected. “He died horribly?”
The question was asked with amusement. Once more, it was all Nermesa could do to keep from running his prisoner through.
He chose not to answer, concentrating again on the interior. All those deaths, and Khatak had not even come close to being freed.
Retreating from the wagon, Nermesa summoned Atalan over to him. “Were the guards here at all times?”
“From what I gather, yes.”
“Did you search the wagon?”
The senior man-at-arms scratched his chin. “It was not something that came to mind, sir. The trouble seemed outside.” He hesitated. “Did I hear you say—”
Nermesa cut him off. “Get the prisoners out and search them and the wagon . . . very carefully!”
Atalan had the guards pull Khatak and the rest out. The brigand chieftain continued to smile as he was brought past Nermesa, but his eyes now appraised the Aquilonian differently. Nermesa did not care what Khatak thought at the moment, interested only in the results.
The soldiers looked over their captives from top to bottom, even stripping them down. None of the group had been allowed sandals or boots, the better to keep them from running off should they escape the cage.
While this went on, Atalan and others searched the wagon. As time passed, and they discovered nothing, Nermesa grew frustrated. Had he been wrong?
Then, Atalan emerged with a long, slim object . . . and a narrow dagger with it. The dagger had cryptic symbols on both the short hilt and the blade. “Found this under the cage, between the wood frame at the bottom.”
A Pict weapon. Nermesa understood its purpose, but the piece discovered with it made no sense at first, until he thought of the fact that the cage was sealed with a lock. Ordering someone to bring the lock in question to him, the noble closed it, then tried to use the object on it like a key.
On his third attempt, the lock opened.
“This wasn’t in the wagon when it left Scanaga,” he declared. Nermesa eyed Khatak, whose expression had not altered in the least, then asked Atalan, “You made certain that there was nothing else hidden anywhere?”
“I’d swear my life upon it!”
As that was exactly what would be at stake if the prisoners ever did escape, Nermesa took him at his word. Clutching the dagger and the picklock, he ordered the traitors and bandits back into the cage.
Yet, as Khatak passed, Nermesa could not help pulling him out of the line by the collar and bringing him almost nose to nose.
“Another day closer . . .” he whispered to Khatak. “We’ll be seeing the walls of Tarantia soon . . . and then you see nothing but the inside of the Iron Tower.”
Shoving the outlaw to one of the guards before Khatak could respond, Nermesa walked off to plan the burials for Quentus and the other victims.
9
IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE to discover just who had passed on the dagger and the tool during the chaos—supposing that it had even happened then—but Nermesa did his best to solve, at least temporarily, the problem of further assistance to Khatak by alternating the guards more often and having them in pairs at each station. The odds that two soldiers standing side by side would both be traitors were not so great, he felt.
Quentus was buried alongside the others and his belongings, including his armor, were gathered for return to his family. Only when they were being loaded aboard one of the supply wagons did Nermesa realize that he was the nearest thing his former servant had to family. That resurrected anew his bitterness at his friend’s horrific demise, and he silently swore that, once in the capital, Khatak would not escape justice.
The crossing at Galparan days later was a blur to him. He recalled the officer at the gate of the bridge and the presenting of papers to him. What the man had said was lost, as was the actual march across the wide, lined bridge. A clattering of hooves, the curses of men trying to push one of the wagons forward . . . those were the sum total of his memories of Galparan.
The lands beyond fared little better with his attention. The hills gave way to a more level region and occasional forest—the latter nothing as worrisome as out in the Westermarck or the Marches—and one or two nameless villages, which, per Boronius’s orders, they avoided.
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br /> Only when the column reached the edge of a vast plain spreading to the horizon did Nermesa stir. He knew this land well. It was home, even if his actual residence was still days ahead.
The Plains of Tarantia.
But although only small, wooded areas greeted them on this last part of the trek, he nonetheless kept vigilant. The nearer to Tarantia, the more he wanted to make certain that nothing else happened. He rearranged the guards again, hoping that, by doing so, it kept the traitor in their midst from calculating a new escape plan.
And, at night, Nermesa himself stayed awake whenever they were forced to camp near trees.
Then, late one overcast day, a tall structure came into sight. Nermesa stood in the saddle, squinting in the hopes of making out better detail.
It was not Tarantia, but it was almost as good. An estate, such as his family owned in addition to their residence in the capital. As the column neared it, more detail came into view. The main house was particularly imposing, with battlements atop it and a wide stone wall upon which guards walked. Arched windows marked the upper floors, and a sculpted grove lay within the protective wall. Banners fluttered atop the house, a blue field upon which the black silhouette of a tall bird wielding a weapon stood.
The banner stirred some memory, but Nermesa quickly buried it again. What mattered was this was one of the Tarantian estates. That meant that they would surely reach their goal within another day.
“Justice will be served, Quentus,” he whispered to himself. “I swear it . . .”
They came in the view of peasants working the fields. Many of those toiling stopped in their tasks to watch the column pass. Nermesa slowed his horse to talk to a thin man barely older than himself.
“Who is your master?”
Round cap clutched tight in his dirt-encrusted hands, the peasant anxiously replied, “Baron Antonus Sibelio.”
“Sibelio?” Nermesa glanced back at the banner. Small wonder it had struck some memory. A heron with a sword.
The worker bowed. “I shall go alert the master to your presence—”
“Not necessary,” Bolontes’ son quickly responded. “We must be on our way.”
But he was not to escape so readily, for from the main house there suddenly emerged a band of riders in the familiar blue-and-black garb Nermesa still recalled from his first encounter with their master.
And sure enough, Baron Sibelio rode at the head of the party, his cloak flowing behind him. The Gunderman, Betavio, followed directly behind. Aware that a meeting could not be avoided, Nermesa ordered the rest of the soldiers to stand down.
“I am Baron Antonus Sibelio, and I welcome you to my lands, sir knight—” The aristocrat paused to study Nermesa’s face. “By Mitra! It is you! The heir to Klandes!”
“Good evening to you, Baron,” Nermesa said, nodding to an equal. Behind the other noble, Betavio bowed his head but remained silent.
“The last I heard, you were out west and . . . aah!” Antonus studied the long column, his eyes especially pausing on the wagons. “The tale is true, then? Is the famed bandit in one of those?”
Keeping himself formal, Nermesa answered, “We are returning from the west at the order of the throne. I regret to cut this short, Baron, but my orders are to proceed to Tarantia with all haste, and I intend to march us there tonight.”
“With men on foot, you’ll not arrive until virtually dawn! Please! You and these men must be my guests! There is an area to your right not being used this season for growth. The soldiers can camp there, you and your officers may stay at my humble house!”
“You are most gracious, but I must decline. My orders come from General Pallantides himself.”
The baron’s eyes briefly widened. “Aah! You have the right of it, then, young Klandes! Very well, I will not hold you any longer save to ask how your family fares? I’ve not spoken with them since you and my cousin, Bertran, last stood before the king.”
“So far as I know, they’re doing well.” Nermesa made to turn his horse back to the road.
“Lady Orena said so, but I wondered.”
The comment caused Nermesa to hesitate. “You’ve spoken with her?”
The master of Sibelio shrugged. “The business affairs of my House have, of late, included contracts with that of Lenaro. As she is its mistress, we have met on occasion.”
Why that should have bothered Nermesa at all, he could not say. Forcing aside uncomfortable thoughts, he saluted the baron. “Thank you again for your offer of hospitality.”
“Think nothing of it. I hope to offer it to you again in the future.” Baron Sibelio signaled his men to turn. With a last nod to Nermesa, the other noble rode back toward his home.
Nermesa glanced at his hands, which had tightened around the reins since the baron’s arrival. Frowning, he returned to the front of the column and waved for the march to resume. Never once did he look back at the Sibelio estate.
THE WALLS OF the capital were a welcome view even though glimpsed in the gloom of night. Nermesa had never experienced coming to Tarantia in such a manner. Most of his excursions outside of the city had been to various estates, and those trips had lasted overnight at most, making the returns home rather mundane. Now, though, after so long out in the Westermarck, Tarantia loomed larger than life, more the mythic capital that he knew pilgrims and foreigners saw upon their first visits.
The broad walls loomed like giants as the column approached. Torchlight illuminated the top, creating a divine halo over Nermesa’s beloved city. Other fires marked the area leading up to the gargantuan iron gates. Scores of guards monitored the vicinity from both atop the wall and at the arched entrance.
A patrol leader rode out with a small band to meet the column. His heavily scarred face and the three-fingered hand he raised to call a halt marked him as a veteran who had seen much fighting.
“Ho, there! Present your orders!”
Nermesa dutifully did. The hawk-faced soldier peered at them, his serious expression suddenly breaking into a gap-toothed grin. He looked at the young fighter with new respect.
“All in order!” The patrol leader handed everything back, then, grinning again, added, “And welcome you are, Nermesa Klandes! Much welcome!”
“Thank you.”
“We’ll lead you in. Should’ve arrived in the daylight! We could’ve had quite a crowd for your homecoming! Everyone wants to see the bastard and the man who at last caught him!”
More grateful than ever that he had avoided just such a spectacle, Nermesa simply nodded to the officer. The veteran turned toward his own men, signaling with his maimed hand that they should take up escort positions.
“We could still ride in with horns blaring,” he suggested to Nermesa. “Draw quite a crowd yet, even if from their beds.”
“That won’t be necessary. General Pallantides wants the prisoners secured as soon as possible.”
Mention of Pallantides’ name finally settled the matter. The officer gave some further commands to his soldiers, then guided the column toward the gates.
Like the mouth of a dragon opening high to swallow them, the pointed gates rose to admit the newcomers. Everywhere, soldiers lined the area in the hopes of catching a glimpse of Khatak . . . or even Nermesa, for that matter. A few early-rising workers and merchants also gathered, curious as to what the fuss was all about.
Despite the long day’s march, Nermesa’s men moved as if fully rested. Some little of the glory of Khatak’s capture rubbed off on them. Several of the Tarantian guards gave cheers and slapped the backs of the new arrivals. Nermesa grew a little nervous over the slacking of attention. It would be a fine jest if somehow Khatak escaped at the very walls of the capital.
But no such horrific incident occurred. The column moved on from the gates. The patrol leader pulled his own troops aside and saluted Nermesa as he passed.
Beyond the gate, there were few yet awake. Bracketed torches in the sides of buildings and walls lit the stone streets, revealing the tall, arched
buildings that made up much of Tarantia. The king’s banner flew everywhere, and occasional patrols marked important intersections. Every soldier paused to watch the column move along.
From the second floors of several of the beige-toned structures, some sleepy residents stepped out onto barred balconies to see what was happening.
“What’s all going on down there?” demanded a portly man in a blue silken robe to one of the soldiers on patrol duty.
“They’ve brought that devil brigand back in a cage!” the armored figure responded. “Khatak, the Beast of the West!”
“Khatak!” The man pulled his robe tight in momentary concern.
“Aye,” continued the soldier, suddenly pointing at Nermesa. “And there’s the one who captured him!”
How the soldier could know for certain that he pointed at the right man, Bolontes’ son did not know, but the act brought more and more attention Nermesa did not desire. Word spread from balcony to balcony, street to street, somehow moving swifter than the column. Despite Nermesa’s intention of sneaking into Tarantia, groups began to gather ahead, citizens so interested in seeing the monster and the hero that they stood in their nightclothes, unconcerned about appearances. Even the fact that they soon realized that they would only see a wagon instead of the actual bandit did not dissuade them. Worse, many pointed at Nermesa, gesturing to one another and talking animatedly about him.
But this was what you wanted, wasn’t it? he chided himself. To return home the conquering hero, the envy of all and the champion of the king?
A hint of light upon the horizon began bringing Tarantia to life. Tall, spiraling towers formed in the distance, marking the main temple of Mitra. Like so many of the other towers, including those of the palace, they were blue and gold, though both colors were muted in the twilight.
But then another structure arose, one that in its own unique manner signified the near conclusion to the long trek. Narrow, a stark gray, the Iron Tower was a dread reminder of times past and present. During Namedides’s reign, it had been filled to bursting. It had not mattered whether any of the prisoners were guilty or innocent, the city guard under Namedides had taken the slightest hint of disrespect as reason enough to drag someone off to the sinister tower. To speak of the clawed structure then was to do so in whispers for fear that ears within it would somehow catch notice. Only the uppermost level of the tower had windows . . . two red burning gaps that, as a child, had reminded Nermesa of blazing eyes.
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