The God in the Moon

by Richard A. Knaak

  Her eyes encouraged him.

  “If you would have a place among your ladies-in-waiting, there is one Telaria of House Lenaro I would beseech you to summon to your service.”

  She smiled. “A beloved?”

  “A . . . friend.”

  The smile only widened. “Certainly a tiny boon! And if she is cared for so much by you, I suspect her company will be more than welcome by me. In fact, I will see to it this very day.”

  With that, Zenobia joined her husband, leaving the way open for Pallantides.

  “Congratulations, Nermesa. I saw your father’s reaction. Tears, though I’d wager he’ll deny it when you talk with him.”

  “This is all too much, General! I’m not deserving of it!”

  The veteran commander smiled ruefully. “Savor it while you can. Whether by Mitra, Crom, or merely chance, the world has a habit of turning on its head. Tomorrow, you might be wishing desperately for this day.” The smile vanished. “You may trust me on that. I speak from experience.”

  The general moved on. As his place was taken by one of the nameless dignitaries, Nermesa fingered the medallion and thought of what had happened since he had decided to fight for his beloved Aquilonia. Thought about it . . . and knew that Pallantides had spoken all too true.

  11

  THE WESTERMARCK CONTINUED to be quiet. General Octavio found that quiet both pleasant and disturbing. The wilderness was a beautiful place, true, with lush, green forest and a breeze that helped cool him in his stifling armor. Octavio even occasionally thought of retiring to the west as a settler . . . but first the land would have to be cleansed of the foul Picts.

  And that was the disturbing part. The savages were never more worrisome to him as when they seemed up to nothing. Picts lived for mischief and bloodshed, so the general believed.

  He and his troop of some two hundred men were on their way back to Scanaga to report to General Boronius. For all his time out here, Octavio had nothing to show for it save two minor bandits caught and hanged several days back. The pair had claimed to be trappers, but the evidence in their wagon revealed that they had slain the true owners and taken the skins for their own gain. Unfortunately, they had given no evidence indicating they had any link with Khatak.

  Octavio had left them dangling where they would serve as a long-term reminder to both brigands and natives that the Aquilonian military meant business.

  The general’s trained ears heard a rustling of leaves from his right. There were few Picts in this region, and the largest tribe, the Fox people, were scarcely worth even the notice. Against a force such as his, they would have been easily butchered. Still, that did not mean that a few young warriors might not try some foolhardy stunt like picking off a man or two with their bows and melting back into the landscape.

  But it was not a warrior whom Octavio caught a glimpse of slipping into the forest, but rather a young, barely clad Pict female. Octavio had a taste for them, especially after almost two weeks on the march, but pleasure was not on his mind just now. The woman could not be that far from her tribe. Whatever knowledge she had of their whereabouts and activities might be of some interest to him.

  Then, perhaps he would take his pleasure . . .

  “Sir Hedric! Four men! Into the forest after that Pict! I want her brought back now for questioning!”

  “Aye, general!” The knight in question waved forward several mounted men-at-arms. With Hedric in the lead, they quickly rode after the female.

  Barely a minute passed before he heard her protesting voice and the laughter of one of the men-at-arms. General Octavio frowned, determined to punish any soldier who let his duty slip due to lust. Duty always came first.

  Then, the laughter turned to an outcry. There was a heavy, pounding sound.

  The first cry was followed by shouts of dismay from the other pursuers. The clash of arms echoed throughout the area.

  “All men! Ready weapons!” Octavio drew his own sword. “Into the forest! Double pace, but maintain order!”

  The force rapidly advanced. The general quickly veered toward the exact point Hedric and the others had gone. Even as he did, though, the fighting died away. What sounded again like pounding briefly arose, then also ceased.

  The Aquilonians slashed at the undergrowth, hacking it to pieces as they would those who had attacked their comrades. Precious moments slipped away.

  It took longer for them to make their way through than Octavio had bargained for, but at last the gaunt commander spied a pair of figures standing tight against the trees ahead. The glint of light on them marked the pair as his own men. Both were peering around the trunks toward the wilderness farther on.

  As he drew nearer, Octavio saw that one wore the armor of a knight. There was no sign of the men’s horses or the other two soldiers and the Pict female.

  “Hedric!” he shouted. “Hedric!”

  But the knight did not answer. In fact, neither man moved.

  Only then was the general near enough to see that something stuck out of the area of Hedric’s neck where the helmet met the breastplate.

  It looked the head of a large iron nail.

  He glanced at the man-at-arms and saw the same there. Belatedly, General Octavio noted that the hands supposedly gripping the trunk had also been hammered into the wood.

  “Mitra!” The veteran officer had witnessed many Pict atrocities over his career, but this was a new and particularly abhorrent one. That the pair likely had been crucified only after already being slain did nothing to assuage his fury.

  General Octavio’s rage grew. Despite their incredible swiftness, the Picts could not be far from their victims. He would teach them a lesson against which this travesty would pale.

  Something red and furred caught his gaze. The tail of a small animal, with a bone pin at the end.

  A fox tail . . . and one that had been worn by an attacker.

  “The Fox people . . .” He knew who the culprits were. The fools! Octavio would slay ten of the savages for every man of his slaughtered. He would wipe out the entire tribe!

  A figure far ahead of the lines stumbled in the underbrush. A head briefly popped into view. The young Pict female. There was a red stain on her cheek, and she moved as if one of her legs had been badly injured. There was no hesitation in her actions; she tried desperately to move as fast as she could.

  “After her!” snapped the general. He did not rule out a trap, but his men were more than capable of anything a handful of Picts could devise.

  A hissing sound gave the only warning before two men staggered and fell, arrows through their throats. A few more feathered bolts bounced harmlessly off armor and shields. Octavio made a quick estimate and counted no more than a dozen bows. One of his officers called out, and the company’s own archers, some of them Bossonians, responded to the fire with their own bows. Cries rang out from the woods, and at least four Pict bodies slumped forward.

  The forest thickened, but not enough to slow the advance. Even the horses were able to keep pace, and, from what he could see of the land ahead, matters only improved. Octavio grinned. The natives had outsmarted themselves.

  With the soldiers drawing so close, a few Picts fled from their hiding places. As for the female who had lured his men to their doom, she was only seconds from being run down by his own animal. Any earlier desire he had for her had transformed into utter hatred. He would do to her as her kind had done to Hedric and the others.

  “Scour this place!” Octavio roared. “I want it washed clean with the blood of these beasts!”

  The female slipped, disappearing in the high undergrowth. The general eagerly rode over the spot, but his horse’s hooves landed on nothing but earth. He cursed and glanced back at the area, but she was nowhere to be seen.

  General Octavio decided that he could worry about her after the warriors were all slain. One maimed Pict female would not make it far.

  They came out into a clearing. The panicked Picts, some twenty or so, were trying despe
rately to reach the far side, where the forest would give them renewed if naive hope of escape. Already, the company’s archers were getting into position to unleash a volley that would likely bring down at least half of the savages. This part of the battle was already almost finished. After the last had been run to the ground, Octavio would lead his men into the village itself and raze it to the ground. It would be a good, grim reminder to other tribes of what happened to those who defied the military.

  The Aquilonians spread through the clearing. The archers raised their bows high. The slaughter was imminent.

  And then, from the other side, more Picts than General Octavio had ever seen in his entire career in the Westermarck poured out of the forest toward the stunned soldiers.

  The commander tried to make a quick estimate and failed. He stared in disbelief that there could be so many. It was as if there was far more than one tribe—

  The general looked from one Pict to the next. There were those of the Fox Tribe, as he had expected, but many warriors wore feathers of varying types or skins of animals other than the one he had expected.

  It was not one tribe they faced, nor even two or three, as had sometimes happened in the past . . . but rather a banding together of at least half a dozen.

  Octavio opened his mouth to call for an ordered retreat, but even before a single sound escaped his lips, other cries rose from not only the right and left flanks . . . but the rear as well.

  There were more Picts.

  “Form squares!” he shouted. “Form squares!”

  The soldiers hurried to obey, but the Picts were too close. A flight of arrows fell among the Aquilonians, downing several. Men in the rear line turned just as the first savages collided with them.

  A shouting warrior with a club swung at Octavio. The general stabbed the Pict through his tattooed chest. A man-at-arms only a few feet away cut off the hand of another warrior, then fell with an ax in his throat.

  Farther ahead, two Picts dropped as a few of the archers got off shots. Two knights trampled an overzealous savage, then cut a swathe through the milling enemy.

  General Octavio’s hopes swelled. There was still a way to salvage most of the company—

  A hideous roar briefly overwhelmed all other cries. Octavio reined his mount to a halt, searching for the source.

  Something dropped on the two mounted knights, bowling them off their mounts. The Picts eagerly fell upon the two helpless fighters, pounding them to pulp inside their armor.

  “What in the name of—” The knights had been taken down by a huge piece of wood that might have been the stump of a dead tree. The gaunt general eyed the forest nearest the stricken pair. It had almost seemed as if the missile had dropped from the foliage.

  The Picts fought with more lust than ever, seemingly galvanized by this bizarre and frightening attack from the trees. Octavio watched his lines collapse as if made of paper. The Aquilonians were pressed on all sides. For every savage to die, one of his own perished . . . and there were far, far more Picts.

  Distracted, he noticed the warrior near his left too late. The Pict tried to drive his spear through a space between the plates protecting the general’s torso. The veteran soldier managed to deflect the point down, but it still sank deep into his leg at the joint.

  Biting his lip so hard that he drew blood, General Octavio slew his foe, but the pain from the wound made him shake. The Pict’s spear had gone most of the way through, tearing muscle and sinew.

  “General!” A knight seized his reins. “We’ve got a square formed! There’s still a chance for some of us to—”

  But a Pict arrow ended the other’s words. With a gasp, the dead knight fell into Octavio’s arms.

  At the same time, two tattooed figures leapt onto the general’s mount. Octavio kicked one away, but his arms, tangled with the corpse, prevented him from doing anything about the second.

  Giving the Aquilonian officer a grin filled with filed teeth, the Pict buried his spear just below Octavio’s throat.

  Choking, the general flung the dead knight away. The Pict’s spear broke off just below the head. Octavio batted its wielder away, but the dark deed had been done.

  The world spun madly. General Octavio caught glimpses of desperate soldiers pinned back-to-back, swarms of Picts spilling over them, and what he thought was the same young female who had led them into the trap. She was grinning.

  And then the general saw nothing more.

  DESPITE HIS WORRIES and the general’s warning, the week that followed eased some of Nermesa’s apprehensions. He had no confrontation with Orena, and his parents did not question him about her. However, news came to him that Telaria had received an invitation to join Queen Zenobia’s ladies, an honor, he knew, that Orena dared not refuse her sister. Ironically, by gaining this for Telaria, Nermesa had also given his estranged betrothed some of what she desired, for it would grant Orena an excuse to visit the palace. It was a worthy price to pay, though, to remove the younger sibling from Orena’s direct power.

  Friends and associates continued to shower Nermesa with praises, and his father appeared to have forgotten any distaste he had expressed for the king in the past. Klandes had also gained several lucrative agreements over the past few days, all of them owing to the throne’s favor.

  Nermesa had expected to be sent back to the Westermarck immediately, but no orders had as yet come. He thus spent much of his time riding through Tarantia—even once visiting the family holdings in the countryside—and twice prayed for Quentus’s soul at the temple of Mitra, all to take his mind off of his inactivity and avoid the inevitable concerning Orena.

  But the latter situation at last caught up with Nermesa. As he readied himself in his quarters for another evening ride through the city, he heard a familiar voice in the hall below. Morannus’s. The Gunderman was speaking with his father. The conversation lasted only a few seconds, but that was far more than enough.

  Moments later, Bolontes caught him as he attempted to depart through the back of their home. “Nermesa! I wish to speak with you, son!”

  “Father, I—”

  The elder Klandes cut him off. In his hand, he held a letter with the Lenaro seal on it. “Nermesa, what is between you and Orena?”

  “Nothing, Father. Between us, I can swear by Mitra that there is absolutely nothing.” The vehemence in his tone surprised even him.

  His father was taken aback by it. “What are you saying, son?”

  Aware that he could no longer avoid saying something, Nermesa bitterly added, “I intend to break our betrothal. I will not marry Orena Lenaro.”

  “What?” Bolontes looked aghast. “Our two Houses planned this long ago! It’s set! Lenaro will be a tremendous addition to our holdings, and Orena is certainly no hag! You could do far worse, my son.”

  “It would be difficult to do so!” Nermesa snapped. Taking a deep breath, he gave Bolontes an apologetic smile. “Just trust me, Father, that what I do is not just for me, though I’ll be grateful for cutting the ties! I will not marry Orena Lenaro for any benefit to me or my House!”

  “Nermesa—”

  But Bolontes’ son, trying to keep from further argument, strode past the patriarch. He rushed down the stairway and out of the house to his waiting mount. He grabbed the reins from the startled servant and, leaping into the saddle, rode off into Tarantia.

  Nermesa rode aimlessly throughout various parts of the vast city. He paid little heed to either his surroundings or the people with whom he came into contact. His mind was a storm of conflicting emotions. He regretted speaking so with his father and knew that he should have broken the news in a more subtle manner, but Orena’s letter had come at just the wrong moment. Confronted, Nermesa had been unable to stop the words from issuing forth.

  He would make it up to his family somehow. There were other matches that could be made, good ones that would benefit House Klandes and be tolerable for Nermesa.

  Nermesa did not realize how long he had been riding until
he began to notice a lessening of the crowd. He tugged on the reins and peered around, unfamiliar with the area. Taverns that had seen better days populated the vicinity, and those exiting and entering them were clearly of a less fortunate stratum than the knight. A few unsavory faces peered suspiciously his way. Nermesa only then realized that, in his haste, he had left his sword back home.

  With an air of casualness, he turned his mount and headed away. Fortunately, despite the darkness, the torches atop the palace towers were visible. Nermesa grimaced at how small they appeared, though; he knew now that he had ridden all the way to the opposite end of Tarantia.

  Despite the lateness of the hour and the emptying of the streets by all but the hardiest of souls, the return was a slow one. The streets of Tarantia had been built as the capital had grown over the centuries. This meant many winding paths that suddenly ended, more than once forcing Nermesa to take an alternate route.

  Eventually, though, he made it back to the proximity of the palace, a place much more well lit than many through which the noble had passed. Nermesa relaxed as he rode by the great edifice, the innate power of the king comforting him. He thought suddenly of Telaria, who would be within, and hoped that she understood that he had only tried to help her. Nermesa decided to visit her when the opportunity arose and see how she was faring.

  The light of the palace began to fade behind him and suddenly Nermesa had the unsettling feeling that someone sinister watched him. He surreptitiously gazed around but saw no one. Yet, the sensation of being watched remained strong . . .

  He looked over his shoulder.

  The fiery twin lights of the Iron Tower gazed down imperiously at him.

  Nermesa quietly swore, startled to find that his childhood fears of the place had come back to haunt him. The dark prison served a better purpose now that Conan ruled Aquilonia. Its present residents were supposed to be locked away, unlike in times past.

  In contrast to much around it, the Iron Tower never slept. That was made more apparent by the three figures near the entrance to the ominous structure. Two were clad in the armor of the city guard and the third was a disgruntled, scarred male in grungy garments who looked like a thief of some sort.