The God in the Moon

by Richard A. Knaak

  The sight reminded him of Khatak within. Nermesa urged his mount to a more active pace, his desire to be home increasing. He wanted to forget completely the imprisoned brigand.

  While he did pass some areas still frequented by various elements of the populace, Nermesa’s path was, for the most part, quiet save for the occasional patrol. More than once, he rode through places where the torches had either not been lit or had gone out, but, fortunately, those places were near to home and thus familiar to him. By now, his tensions had all but slipped away, simple exhaustion taking over.

  It was with weary relief that he saw at last the Klandes house ahead. The torchlit gates welcomed Nermesa. He urged his stallion on, eager to be in his bed. Tomorrow, he would somehow make things right with his father.

  “My lord Nermesa?”

  He started, not having noticed the cloaked figure coming out of a side street. Nermesa relaxed almost immediately, though, for the shadowed newcomer wore the armor of the Aquilonian military.

  “Who are you?”

  “Forgive me, my lord. I tried to see you earlier, but you were away. I’ve been waiting some time for you to return.” The man pulled his hood back slightly, revealing in the torchlight a bearded face that struck a chord.

  “I know you, don’t I?” Nermesa leaned down. “You were in the column . . .”

  “Aye, my lord. The column. ’Tis why I’ve come.” He glanced around furtively, as if fearful of being discovered. “I need to speak with you on a dire matter dealing with the bastard brigand we brought back . . . and those who’d see him free . . .”

  “What?” Nermesa tensed. The matter of the traitor who had sought Khatak’s release during the trek had not been resolved. Nermesa had assumed that, once the bandit had been incarcerated in the Iron Tower, the treacherous soldier had simply given up. “What do you mean? What have you heard?”

  Again, the man glanced about. “My lord, can we not move out of the light? This involves some of my own, and should anyone see our conversation, I fear word might get back and endanger things.”

  “Very well.” Nermesa urged his horse to the darkened side of the street near where the soldier had materialized. He then dismounted and joined his companion in the shadows. From what he had so far gathered from the soldier’s concerns, the betrayal must have gone deeper than one man, information that had to reach General Pallantides as soon as possible.

  “Is this better?” he asked.

  With a swift survey, the soldier—a man-at-arms, the noble finally recalled—nodded. He bent close to Nermesa. “They seek to free him this very evening.”

  “Who—you don’t mean Khatak?”

  “Aye . . .” The man gazed past him. “He may even be free by now . . .”

  Nermesa took him by the shoulders. “And you stood here waiting for me? You should have gone to the palace with this news! Why wait here in the shadows for me?”

  “Because it is what I wish,” said another behind him.

  Nermesa spun toward the new voice. He caught a glimpse of wild hair and eyes that seemed to glow like embers in the darkness.

  And despite the shadows of night, he also saw the crooked smile.

  Khatak struck him on the side of the head with the hilt of a dagger.

  Nermesa tumbled into the waiting arms of the traitorous soldier . . . and knew no more.

  12

  CONSCIOUSNESS, WHEN IT returned, did so accompanied by pain. There was more than one type of pain, too. There was the throbbing ache in his head, especially harsh where he vaguely recalled the brigand chieftain striking him. But there was also the tight constriction around his arms, legs, and throat, the last most stifling when he moved just the wrong way.

  Worst of all was the shameful pain that Nermesa had fallen victim to Khatak’s ploy. Oddly enough, it was not for himself that he feared, but rather those who would die because he had not slain the bandit when first they had fought. Nermesa had no doubt that Khatak would mark his return to the west by wreaking havoc on the territories as never before.

  With effort, he forced his eyes open . . . and saw nothing but darkness. Nermesa at first thought that he still lay in the shadows of the street, but quickly realized that he was in some sealed chamber. There was no floor, only soft, moist earth. The reason for the constriction around his limbs and throat was a simple one; someone had bound him quite thoroughly, then looped one end of a rope around his neck, guaranteeing that he could do little to free himself without choking to death. It was a wonder that Nermesa had not done so already while unconscious.

  But where was he? Still in Tarantia or somewhere much farther west? Why had Khatak even bothered to leave him alive? He already knew why the brigand had taken the chance of recapture to come after the Aquilonian. Khatak was vain, arrogant, to the point of megalomania. Nermesa had done what no one else could and, in the half-breed’s twisted mind, to regain his fearsome reputation, Khatak had to prove that he was the master of the two to those following the bandit.

  But it would have been simple enough just to cut off his head and drag it back to the Westermarck. That Khatak had left him breathing surely meant he had something more dreadful in mind. Nermesa’s death was to be a spectacle to put awe and fear in the ruthless Picts.

  They had stuffed his mouth with cloth and bound another piece around his head so as to prevent him from calling out. Again, it was a wonder that Nermesa had not suffocated because of their thoroughness.

  Unable to do anything else, the captive knight pondered Khatak’s escape from the seemingly impregnable Iron Tower. There had to have been other traitors besides the man-at-arms, and at least one of those others was someone of prestige. How else to gain entrance to the prison?

  From that point, however, Nermesa reached a dead end. He could think of no one who would wish to aid the nefarious bandit leader. The notion that any Aquilonian of reputation would do so was beyond comprehension. What gain could there be worth such a vile act?

  A sound caught his attention. A voice . . . two voices. They drifted nearer and nearer until at last Nermesa found himself able to understand portions of the conversation.

  “. . . foolish gesture . . . risks all . . .” said the first, a voice the heir to Klandes did not at all recognize.

  The second voice responded and, although unintelligible, could not be mistaken for anyone other than Khatak.

  The bandit’s companion spoke again. “. . . of here as soon . . . dark! The wagon—”

  “Enough!” snarled Khatak, suddenly much clearer. “Understand all very well!”

  “Then understand . . . foolish to . . . alive! . . . Not out of here . . . cut his throat myself!”

  Nermesa strained to identify the other voice, which remained more distant. That it was of Aquilonian blood was most likely, but the walls muffled it too much otherwise. Of course, even if he could have heard the traitor clearly, doing so might not have helped at all. Nermesa did not know every noble of Tarantia—assuming that the speaker even was one—and even of those he did, most were not familiar enough to him to recognize them under any conditions. Assuming it was not that of a stranger, the voice could have belonged to a hundred or more acquaintances.

  Nermesa expected someone to enter, but both Khatak and his companion moved on. The stillness bothered Nermesa more than the voices, for it made it too easy for him to imagine various unsettling scenarios. He became determined to find some manner of escape.

  With great caution so as to avoid strangling himself, the Aquilonian rolled across the chamber. His face slipped into the earth more than once, but at last he made it to the other side. The arduous trek proved a disappointment, however, for Nermesa discovered nothing but a blank wall. That it was impossible for him to stand proved frustrating, for it meant that any hooks or such even at what would have been shoulder level were far beyond his reach.

  With effort, he turned himself to the side and began rolling again. Unfortunately, the results were no better. Nermesa appeared to be in a rectangular c
hamber likely used for grain and such—at least, that would have explained the seeds over which his face occasionally crossed. Whether it had been cleared out prior to his arrival, he could not say. What mattered was that he had found nothing with which to unbind himself, and, failing that, he was surely doomed.

  No . . . there had to be some way out of this predicament. Nermesa considered his garments. His captors had emptied his pouches, but had left him clothed. That, however, helped Nermesa very little. If he had been in armor, perhaps there might have been a jutting piece of metal he could have used to cut the ropes, but most of what he wore was cloth, entirely useless to his cause.

  At a loss, Nermesa flattened himself against the nearest wall and started to inch along its width. Perhaps his rolling search had made him miss something. It was all that was left for him.

  But the first wall gave him nothing, and the second proved no better. Desperation crept into his thoughts, yet Nermesa pushed on.

  In order to move, Nermesa had to undulate in a manner that forced his head up and down. More than once, he caught his throat, forcing him to pause to regain his breath. The strain began to tell—

  The back of his head rubbed against something sharp and metal.

  Nermesa cautiously slid his head across it. A small hook or brace about two feet from the floor. It was only an inch across. What purpose it served, Nermesa did not know, but perhaps it might prove his salvation.

  He shifted ahead, trying to match it with his wrists. In order to place the bonds there against it, the captive knight had to arch himself painfully. That was a small price to pay, though, for survival.

  Nermesa began rubbing the rope over the sharpest edge he could find. The metal was rusted and slightly loose. He feared that it would break off, but after several minutes, it still remained in place.

  While Nermesa could not entirely be certain, he thought he felt the first strands begin to give way. Pulling his wrists as far from each other as possible, he increased his pace, rubbing back and forth, back and forth . . .

  His hands abruptly shifted. They were not free, but clearly part of the rope had been severed. The Aquilonian worked harder, knowing that at any moment he might be discovered.

  The metal piece suddenly wobbled violently. Caught up in his efforts, Nermesa paid it little mind . . . until the brace snapped off.

  Clattering once against the wall, the metal dropped onto the dirt floor. Nermesa wanted to cry out in anger. He tugged violently, trying to see if he could reach the piece and hold it well enough to continue on.

  The last of the rope ripped apart.

  Nermesa felt his left hand come free. The right one was still partially bound to the rope running from his throat to his ankles. Nermesa sought to undo the other hand, then realized that he would be better off untying his neck first.

  He struggled to undo the knot. With only one hand, the effort was difficult, but in the end, it came loose. As the rope fell away, Nermesa reached for the cloth binding his mouth. More than anything else, he wanted to take one decent breath before continuing.

  And at that moment, he heard a key rattling in the unseen door.

  Slipping his free hand behind him, Nermesa pressed his back against the wall. A creaking sound echoed in the chamber and light filtered in.

  Nermesa all but shut his eyes, leaving just the barest slits so that he could have some idea of what was happening. Pushing the door closed again, a lone figure bearing a square lantern stepped down a single stone step, then proceeded toward the prisoner. From what Nermesa could make out, it was the very same traitor who had caught his attention in the street. The man was unarmored now, but still wore his sword and dagger. His harsh breathing echoed loud in the otherwise silent chamber.

  As the soldier brought the lantern close, Nermesa closed his eyes the rest of the way.

  A hand shook him roughly. The captive made no sound, even when the jerking movements almost cut off his air.

  “Still out, are you?” grumbled the traitorous man-at-arms, ceasing the shaking. “Well, you’ll be sleepin’ forever soon.” There was some shifting, then the other said, “Nice boots. Look to be about right. Maybe I can slip them off, considerin’ you won’t need them, my lord.”

  He chuckled. Nermesa sensed the light shift toward his feet. He heard the man-at-arms set the lantern down. Trying not to tense, Nermesa cautiously opened his eyes. The traitor’s attention was on the boots. From the present angle, the fact that the rope around them no longer extended to Nermesa’s throat was not so obvious, but the captive noble could not hope that it would go unnoticed much longer. He clenched his free hand, ready to strike his foe as best as possible . . . then noticed that the man’s sheathed dagger was well within reach.

  It was his best—if also most desperate—hope. With the utmost caution, Nermesa slid his hand out and stretched it toward the dagger. His captor was focused on how easiest to free the boots, not realizing that all he had to do was pull hard.

  Nermesa’s fingers were only an inch from the dagger. He held his breath.

  “What’s this?” the man-at-arms suddenly growled, studying the area near Nermesa’s ankles. “These shouldn’t be loose—”

  Thrusting himself to the side, the knight seized the dagger, pulling it free.

  His captor felt the motion and started to turn.

  Nermesa buried the dagger in the traitorous soldier’s upper back, shoving it in all the way to the hilt.

  With a gasp, the man-at-arms grabbed frantically for the blade, but it was out of his reach. After a moment, the effort proved too great. Body quivering, the villain fell forward. Perhaps he tried to call out, but the sound that emerged was but a grunt that could have meant anything.

  Slithering, Nermesa rolled on top of the dying man. He covered up the soldier’s face to avoid a second possible attempt at giving warning. His effort, however, proved unnecessary, for the man-at-arms shook once . . . then went limp.

  Wasting no time, Nermesa crawled back and removed the dagger. Ignoring the dripping blood, he used it to completely free his other hand, then severed the rest of his bonds.

  Rolling the body over, the noble undid the belt holding the dead man’s sword sheath, then placed it around his own waist. He thrust the dagger in the belt, then tugged the larger blade free from the corpse’s grip. The guard’s sword was a capable one, if less honed than Nermesa would have preferred. He swung it twice to test its weight and balance, at the same time using the moment to stretch his cramped muscles.

  Hurrying as best he could to the door, Nermesa listened for any immediate threat. Hearing nothing, he slowly opened it and peeked outside. The area beyond was a dimly lit hall that revealed no secrets concerning his whereabouts but at least also contained no menace. Nermesa paused to listen again but heard nothing from either direction.

  Slipping out of his prison, the noble took a guess and turned left. As he silently made his way, he debated what to do. On the one hand, it made sense to escape and give warning to Tarantia. On the other, Khatak could easily use the time Nermesa needed to reach help to flee.

  What choice he would have made was taken from him by the abrupt appearance of a breastplated figure emerging ahead of him. The mustached soldier gaped at the sight of the escaped prisoner, then, with a warning cry, drew his sword.

  Cursing at his lost advantage, Nermesa lunged at the other. The man met his attack, parrying it and attempting one of his own.

  “This time, you’ll die!” growled the villain. “Like you should’ve on the supply run!”

  Nermesa blinked, finally recognizing his adversary as one of the men who had betrayed the supply column the night he had captured Khatak. That meant that whoever had freed the brigand had managed to release the others as well. That bespoke someone with tremendous influence working with Khatak.

  Their blades came together with a harsh ring. The other man-at-arms was capable, but Nermesa knew that, had he not been bound and gagged for so long, he could have already taken his foe.r />
  Voices shouted from somewhere outside. Nermesa realized that the longer he did battle with this man, the worse his chances became. Despite the agony to his body, he had to end this fight immediately.

  The mustached soldier swung hard for his chest. Nermesa deflected the blow downward, then ran his blade across the man’s throat. He only grazed his adversary, but it was enough to put the other off-balance. Nermesa chopped at his sword hand, severing more than one finger and causing the man-at-arms to drop his weapon. The noble finished his foe with another jab to the throat.

  Leaping back from the collapsing body, Nermesa turned and headed away from the shouting. He dashed through a windowed corridor, catching a glimpse of the walls of Tarantia in the distance. They had not taken him as far away as he had feared. If he could but find a horse, he could make good his escape and warn the city guard. Nermesa ran faster, eager to be rid of this place—

  However, as he turned down another hall, he all but collided with a pair of brigands. Reacting faster than either, he smashed one in the jaw with the hand wielding the sword, then cut the other across the chest. As the wounded man fell forward, Nermesa hit the first bandit again, this time in the back of the head.

  Although very brief, the struggle sapped him of more of his flagging strength. Worse, the shouts of others in search of the missing captive grew more ardent.

  Leaving the duo behind, the Aquilonian came to an open balcony. The house clearly belonged to someone of moderate wealth but lacked any sign of habitation other than his captors’ presence. Nermesa suspected that its sole purpose was for such nefarious deeds as smuggling and his kidnapping.

  A clatter arose in the hallways. Nermesa glanced over the rail, judging the distance down. Hesitating only a moment, Nermesa sheathed his weapon, climbed over the rail, and jumped.

  He landed in a crouching position, his bones shaking from the impact. Immediately, Nermesa sensed a figure behind him. He spun around, sword drawn as he moved.