“I understand.”
“A pity both men perished. Perhaps if one had lived to be questioned, we might know more about this would-be successor to the bandit chieftain. In the meantime, however, I must suggest you take action, young Klandes. If you would ride out at the head of a strong column, make a few passes near the savages’ lands, that might cut off any thought the villains have of using Boronius’s murder to stir up things.”
“Would they even know of it? We caught both.”
“But were they all? I’m afraid we must consider that.”
Nermesa saw his reasoning. The assassins had gained entrance somehow. It was very possible that another traitor had helped them or that they had simply slipped past an unwary sentry. Unfortunately, it was likely that the full truth would never be known. Yes, Flavian was indeed correct; the Aquilonians had to consider the worst.
“You can rely on him,” Caltero remarked, slapping his cousin on the back. “He’ll have them running with their tails between their legs.”
“I would be satisfied if they simply stayed put in their villages.” The territorial judge bowed his head to both men, who responded in turn. “Leave the matter of Boronius to me. I have agents with me who will secure the body. Tomorrow, it will be announced that the general succumbed to an illness. He struggled to overcome it, but died in his sleep.”
“Not exactly the way the Boar would’ve wanted to go out.”
“But the way he will to preserve the safety of all. I would say ‘good night’ to the pair of you, but we can hardly call this eve good.”
As the elder departed to summon his agents, Nermesa shook his head. “Would that I had come a few minutes earlier.”
“Then, you, too, might have perished.” Caltero frowned. “Your death would trouble me, cousin.”
The somberness with which Caltero uttered this touched Nermesa. He glanced again at General Boronius’s form, now respectfully draped with the commander’s dress cloak. The lion symbol of King Conan filled much of the center.
“Why don’t you go try to get some sleep?” his cousin suggested. “I’ll stay with the Boar for a while.” Caltero’s face softened. “Say my last farewells to him.”
Nodding, Nermesa stepped outside. The four sentries came to attention as he did. After the easy death of the two previous ones, the Aquilonians were taking no chances. While it was true that Flavian wanted no curious soldiers taking a peek, that was not his main concern. It was not outside the realm of reason to think that the brigands might return and try to take some grisly evidence of their success back to the Picts.
In contrast to his earlier reluctance, Nermesa could now think of nothing more important than reaching his bed and going to sleep. He wanted to forget, at least as much as possible, the tragedy of this evening. But as he stepped into the darkened room, he immediately sensed that he was not alone. Nermesa drew his weapon at a shadowy figure standing near his bed, the tip of the blade coming within inches of the intruder’s throat.
And for the second time tonight, a female gasp met his ears.
Withdrawing the blade, Nermesa leaned close. “Khati?”
As his eyes adjusted, he saw that she stood unclad in front of his bed. The darkness only enhanced her exotic beauty.
Soft, warm fingers caressed his cheek. “You are safe?”
“I am . . . thanks to you.”
“Good . . .” This time she did not simply invite. Khati leaned up and kissed him, stirring again the fire in Nermesa.
After all he had been through this evening, his resistance easily crumbled. He wrapped his arms around her, returning the kiss. Somehow, they removed his armor and garments without him actually realizing it.
And, for a time, his wish to forget what had happened came to pass . . .
SHE WAS GONE when he rose the next morning. Nermesa wondered if Caltero had been searching for her; but when he ran into his cousin at the morning meal, the latter acted as if he had not even noticed her absence from his own bed.
“I sent out riders first thing at dawn to the lesser forts to find out about any sudden resurgence of activity among the Picts,” Caltero informed him. “Let’s pray that there’s none.”
The first reports to trickle in gave no evidence that the truth concerning General Boronius’s death had reached the tribes. The official cause announced to the Aquilonians—that he had succumbed to illness—appeared to have been accepted by most. Death by disease or accident was not uncommon in the territories.
Caltero made the suggestion that perhaps it would be good for them to follow the general’s example by taking turns riding out on routine patrols. “Let them see that all continues as it should. People like familiarity in their lives.”
Nermesa recalled that it was on such a patrol that Boronius had been attacked, but still saw the merit of his cousin’s suggestion. For the next several days, the pair did as Caltero had recommended, riding among the inhabitants of Scanaga and the nearby settlements. The action proved to do just as they hoped; the people, somewhat anxious after the “accidental” death of the territorial commander, began to return to their own routines. By the time two weeks had passed, Scanaga seemed almost to have returned to normal.
What had not returned to the way it had once been was Khati’s relationship with Caltero. The Pict woman remained with Nermesa, who no longer fought against his emotions. His cousin seemed untouched by this betrayal, even taking another female within a day of her departure from him. Nermesa’s guilt faded whenever he looked into the deep forest eyes of the woman in his bed. He knew that his parents would have been aghast, but Khati’s presence helped Nermesa to continue on.
Yet, if the loss of his woman did not appear to bother Caltero, the duties of the fort finally seemed to take their toll. Caltero’s drinking increased to the point where, when it came time for his turn on patrol, he could scarcely walk, much less ride.
“I’m in an awful state, cousin,” he admitted from his bed. His new woman, Mahana, lay next to him. Unlike Nermesa, Caltero did not try to keep his trysts from the eyes of the men, which disappointed the younger Klandes. Mahana, a thin thing with a pinched face for a Pict, was unclad.
“You should stop the local wine,” Nermesa bluntly suggested. “This isn’t good for you or Scanaga, Caltero.”
“Yes, well if the damned fools back in Tarantia would get back to us with news of some new commander coming to take over, I’d maybe do that, but where are they? They think you and I can run this forever? I was perfectly happy as the Boar’s subordinate, and he was supposed to be in command forever!” Caltero swung his hand as he talked, causing a bit of the wine in the jug he held to splatter his blanket.
“I’ll ride for you tonight,” Nermesa finally said, sighing.
“May the blessing of Mitra be upon you!” The other knight suddenly groaned, as if his own voice had been too loud for him. He gave Nermesa an apologetic look. “It won’t happen again. I’ll clean myself up, cousin.”
Although not at all certain that Caltero would keep that promise, Nermesa nodded. As he left, he thought once more about how the image that he had built up over the years concerning his cousin had proven so different from the reality. For a brief time after Boronius’s murder, it had looked as if Caltero had pulled himself together, but this new incident had established that Nermesa had simply been deluding himself.
Khati was not in his quarters when he arrived. Nermesa prepared himself for the patrol as quickly as possible, already becoming skilled at slipping on the unwieldy armor without the aid of another. Briefly, he thought of Quentus and how his friend and former servant had so readily and willingly adapted to becoming a soldier of Aquilonia . . . and in great part because of Nermesa. After seeing Caltero in such a ruinous state, Nermesa missed Quentus more than ever. He had not gotten over his guilt for his friend’s death, not even after Khatak had paid the ultimate price.
Konstantin had the patrol waiting for him. The red-haired knight saluted, his expression indicating tha
t he knew exactly why it was Nermesa and not Caltero who rode this evening.
“I will endeavor to do what I can to assist your cousin, Nermesa.”
“Thank you.” Mounting up, Nermesa surveyed the dozen men with him. He knew most by name and respected all. They, in turn, treated him almost as if he were General Boronius. He did not feel that he deserved such an honor and hoped that he could live up to it.
Raising his hand, he shouted, “Forward!”
They rode out of the fort and through Scanaga with their heads held high, the picture of strength and determination. There could be no sign of hesitance or uncertainty. The people had to know that all was well.
Even if the man leading the patrol did not believe that himself.
Four men held torches to keep the way lit. As Scanaga gave way to the forested lands beyond, the members of the party shifted positions, two men riding up before Nermesa and two others flanking him. Despite his own desire to ride foremost, security demanded that he, as one of those in command at Scanaga, be protected. It grated Nermesa, but it was one order he could not countermand.
Local sentries in the settlements gratefully acknowledged their presence. As had become his practice, Nermesa paused to speak with a few. Not only did he feel that it reassured them, but it gave him the opportunity to discover any rumors of significance.
But this night, there was nothing more dire than that a calf had been slain by a wolf or panther. It was a valuable loss to the owner, but not, unfortunately, uncommon. Since the locals had already set out traps and planned a hunt for the next day, the matter was no concern for the military.
They met a long-range patrol on its own circuit, discovered no news, and headed back toward Scanaga. Nermesa realized that Caltero, even in his dire state, could have made this evening’s ride. The night air likely would have done his cousin much good.
The distant, torchlit walls of the territorial capital called to them as they rode along the forest road. Nermesa felt a sudden yearning for Khati and hoped that he would find her when he returned to his quarters.
A harsh hissing sound—like that from a nest of angered serpents—suddenly cut the silence.
Four men, including two of those bearing torches, cried out. One slumped in the saddle while the others dropped limply to the earth.
From out of the trees leapt dark figures. Three more of the Aquilonians were torn from their mounts before the rest could react. Nermesa drew his sword and did battle with a bare-chested bandit. He ran the man through, but not before two more came to take up the battle.
“Keep together!” Nermesa urged. “And drive forward!” If they could push ahead of the ambush, they would leave their adversaries in their wake.
There was no use calling out to Scanaga for aid. The daring brigands had chosen a location just far enough away to make certain that neither the fortified town nor the next nearest settlement could hear the struggle. Visions of the terrible scene discovered by those searching for General Boronius flashed before Nermesa’s eyes, but he fought them back just as he did the squalid villains before him.
Then, a voice speaking Pict shouted what sounded to be a command. Nermesa’s brow furrowed; there was something about the voice that did not sit right. It was almost as if—
A great mass akin to a blanket fell upon him. He heard curses from the soldiers and knew that they were likewise encumbered.
The brigands had thrown a net over the party.
Nermesa brought up his sword in hopes of cutting through the thick rope, but as he did, the bandits pulled the net. The knight was torn from his saddle.
The collision with the ground shook his bones. Fighting against the jarring pain, Nermesa managed to slip partially free of the net. A snarling bandit tried to tackle him, but the Aquilonian slashed him across the stomach, sending the latter sprawling back.
The sounds of battle continued around him, but they were far fewer than in the beginning. Anxiety growing, Nermesa cut free his remaining limbs from the net and turned to aid the others.
Then, a horribly familiar stench invaded his nostrils. He turned to find a huge, fur-covered shadow towering above him.
The voice Nermesa had heard before shouted again in Pict . . . and this time the Aquilonian realized why it had seemed so odd the first time.
The voice was female.
But as this registered, the giant suddenly roared. Nermesa stared in shock as the face came close enough for him to at last make out some shadowed details.
A gargantuan fist barreled into his face.
16
DRUMBEATS WERE THE first sounds to penetrate the fog surrounding Nermesa, drumbeats with an evil rhythm to them.
Pict drums.
Realizing that, the knight struggled to wake, but a clinging, seductive scent kept luring him back into the en-shrouding fog. He fought it unsuccessfully time and time again, but, at last his desperate perseverance defeated the scent, and gradually reality began to coalesce around the Aquilonian.
What he awoke to was a nightmare.
The heads of the men who had ridden with him stared back in what seemed to Nermesa accusation. Of the bodies, there was no sign. In some cases blood still dripped from where the necks had been brutally severed from the torsos. The heads perched on the ends of long, wicked spears whose sharp points had been buried in the earth.
Tearing his stricken eyes away from the gruesome display, Nermesa finally noticed that he lay in a cave. Torches beyond lit the entrance of a passage likely leading out. Others brilliantly illuminated the ghastly vision to which he had awakened . . . and which his captor had intended him to view first, he realized.
That he was in the hands of Picts, Nermesa had no doubt, but there was also no question that Khatak’s brigands had executed the ambush itself. Once again, they could have not done so without the aid of some traitor in the fort. Someone knew exactly what path the patrol would be taking. That they had captured Nermesa was an added gift . . . if they even knew it was him. Had Caltero ridden as planned, it would have been the elder cousin who lay here now.
But why had they preserved his life when the others had all been slaughtered? Whether or not they knew just who it was that they had seized, Nermesa guessed that he was to be used for some sacrifice that would strengthen the Picts’ will. Among the tribes, the ritual slaying of a senior warrior of the enemy was believed to give his might to his captors.
But what would happen if they discovered that they had the man who had captured and killed Khatak? How much worse would his fate be then?
With that nightmare to urge him on, Nermesa struggled to free himself. His first attempt was short-lived, and only then did it register to his still-awakening mind that he lay with limbs splayed on the cave floor. His wrists and ankles were bound to stakes hammered in the ground, and his mouth was bound with a leather strap. To taunt him further, his sheathed sword hung to his right on a small outcropping in the wall.
A swift tug on his bonds revealed very quickly that he was held very, very tight. Nonetheless, Nermesa tested each limb over and over, hoping that the ropes holding one of them would loosen.
A scraping sound in the passage beyond made the noble immediately stop. Shutting his eyes to mere slits, he waited for his captor.
What emerged was a figure so cloaked that, at first, Nermesa had no idea as to whether it was even human. The hooded form leaned close to him, the face buried deep within. Nermesa continued to pretend that he was still unconscious. Perhaps his captor would undo one of his wrists. If so, then, perhaps as he had done with the man-at-arms in Lucian’s estate, a swift motion might enable the knight to overcome the hooded figure and free himself.
But instead, the silent intruder reached with his long sleeves into a small, clay pot sitting nearby. As he turned back to Nermesa, the latter quickly shut his eyes. No sooner had he done so when something powdery landed on the closed lids.
Nermesa’s eyes suddenly burned as if with fire.
He could not help gasping and
shaking. A raw scream finally escaped him. Desperately, the Aquilonian tried to blink away the agony. Had his hands been free, it was very likely that Nermesa would have torn out his eyes, if only to be rid of the horror.
“The pain will fade shortly,” a feminine voice declared maliciously. “At least . . . that pain.”
Sure enough, after a few more seconds of torture, Nermesa was able to tolerate the burning. His eyes still stung, causing them to water, but he no longer felt as if he wanted to rip the orbs from their sockets.
As he came back to his senses, the knight swore at his captor. The torture through which he had just suffered had all been to see whether or not he was pretending to sleep. Nermesa glared at his tormentor, who at first remained a murky blob. Determined to face his foe, the Aquilonian blinked until his vision at last cleared. As it did, the figure obliged his curiosity further by pulling back the hood.
Khati . . .
The smile that played over her soft lips had a crooked, cruel bent to it that Nermesa had never seen on the Pict before. Despite her beauty, the evil in her expression repulsed him utterly.
“The lion warrior . . .” Khati spat in his face. “Gullah will feast on your bones . . .”
“Why do this? What do you want?” he managed, his own voice coming out as more of a croak.
“Your skin to be worn like this cloak,” she replied, removing the garment. “Your head to be on a pole! Your soul to be devoured by He Who Lives in the Moon . . .” The Pict spat again. “And only then will my brother be avenged! My brother, Khatak . . .”
“Khatak?” Nermesa could not contain his consternation. He could have never tied the Pict with the half-breed, not even, he belatedly thought, through the similarity of their names. There were many Picts with similar names. Besides, Khati had been a friend of the Aquilonians, even sharing the beds of Caltero and Nermesa.
Where she could learn all she needed for her brother, Nermesa realized. He and his cousin had been played for fools, their lusts betraying them. Small wonder that Khatak had been so brazen in his feats. Still, Nermesa had been careful never to say anything of significance to her . . . but Caltero had probably babbled his head off.
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