The God in the Moon

by Richard A. Knaak

  “I’m sorry about your brother . . .” More likely, half brother, from the looks of things. If there was any Aquilonian or other eastern blood in her, he could not see it. “But I had no choice.”

  “You will have no choice, too, when you die horribly.” She ran a finger over his chest, causing him to shudder involuntarily. His armor had been removed, and the garment beneath cut open to reveal his upper torso. Nermesa expected each moment for Khati to drive a knife through his heart.

  Then he recalled how she had actually saved him from General Boronius’s murderers. “The man you killed for me—”

  She leaned close enough to kiss him. “He might have spoken if tortured, so had to die. I was not ready for you yet. Besides, there were others coming.”

  So it had been to save her own skin, not his. Nermesa wanted to spit back in her face, but his mouth felt as dry as Stygia’s fabled deserts.

  She laughed lightly at his anger, then kissed his cheek as if tasting him. He twisted his head away, which only made her laugh more.

  “But you will also serve another purpose, besides vengeance! The headmen of the tribes will see how Gullah’s favor is now with me,” she murmured. “I have the feared lion warrior roped like a goat for milking, and soon He Who Lives in the Moon will break your living body into pieces before their eyes . . .”

  Her excellent grasp of the Aquilonian tongue did not surprise him anymore. To act as a spy for Khatak and herself, she had to understand the enemy well.

  More to buy time for himself than out of any hope that he could convince her of the error of her intentions, Nermesa said, “You don’t have to do this, Khati. Your brother fomented trouble between your people and mine. He caused deaths on both sides just for his own gain.”

  With an unsettling laugh, she shook her head. “No . . . our gain.” Her eyes lit up at his confusion. “Our gain, lion warrior! His and mine! Think you that my brother could have planned all this alone? Khatak, he was like Gullah, ferocious and strong, but I . . . I am quicker here.” Khati touched her forehead. “Quicker than him, quicker than you, quicker than all!”

  Nermesa could certainly not deny her cunning. She had made fools of the Aquilonians and had certainly looked to have the cunning to guide her brother in his deeds.

  “The headmen will see,” the Pict continued, caught up in her triumph. “They will know that I am the blessed of Gullah and that to follow me is to drive your kind from the lands of the People!”

  Picts did not normally follow the females of their race. It said much for Khati’s power already that she could even make them consider such a thing.

  “And then you’ll become queen? Is that it?”

  “Yes . . .” Once more she laughed, then suddenly leaned down and kissed him again. He tried to turn his head, but she held it tight until she was done. Pulling back, Khati mocked, “A final gift to you for your sacrifice! You will bring me much power with your doom!”

  Rising lithely, the Pict retrieved a jug of water from one corner of the cave. She brought the jug over to her captive, setting the opening to his mouth.

  When Nermesa refused to drink, she gave him a crooked smile, then put her own lips to the jug. Some of the water dribbled out of her mouth as she drank, coursing down her neck and over the slopes of her breasts. After several swallows, Khati again presented it to the Aquilonian. “Drink.”

  Seeing that it could not be poisoned or drugged, Nermesa gladly did. To his surprise, she let him drink his fill, even taking care that he did not choke.

  “Thank you,” he managed after he was done.

  She chuckled. “You must live long enough to be sacrificed!”

  Setting down the jug, Khati swept out of the cave.

  Nermesa again struggled with his bonds, but they proved no more receptive to his efforts than previously. He laid his head back, shutting his eyes so as not to have to look upon what had been done to his men. Their faces were ingrained into his memory well enough already, and he would not be able to avenge them contemplating his guilt.

  Yet how could Nermesa even free himself? He had no knife and, even if he had, it would have been impossible to manipulate the weapon well enough to sever the ropes around his wrists.

  Eyes still shut, Nermesa tried to think of any other avenue of escape. However, perhaps because of either lingering traces of whatever Khati had first used to keep him unconscious or the simple knowledge that there was no other way to free himself, Nermesa drifted off again . . .

  But he stirred immediately when some inner sense warned him that he was once more no longer alone. How long he had been out, the Aquilonian could not say. Nermesa only knew that footsteps echoed in the passage beyond, footsteps that were made by someone much clumsier than a Pict.

  All but one of the torches had died out, leaving Nermesa in almost complete shadow. The knight wondered if he had slept all the way to the time of his sacrifice.

  As he had the first time, he kept his eyes only slits. Judging by the noisy steps, the intruder was likely one of the brigands. Should that be the case, Nermesa had some slight hope that he might be able to trick the newcomer into freeing him.

  The clink of metal preceded the arrival of the figure and enabled Nermesa to determine that it was indeed no Pict. His hopes rose. Greed fueled bandits. Nermesa could use that fault to his advantage.

  Yet, it was not one of Khatak’s cutthroats who entered, but rather someone who was such a sight to the captive that Nermesa could not help but open his eyes wide and gape.

  “Praise be, you’re conscious. I was afraid that I’d have to try to rouse you . . .”

  Nermesa stared. “Caltero! But how—?”

  His cousin knelt by his side. “We can talk later. Best if we’re away from here before that brigand’s body is found. I didn’t have time to drag it far.”

  From his belt, Caltero produced a dagger and began cutting at the ropes around Nermesa’s wrist. The other knight wore his breastplate over cloth garments. The clinking had come from his sword, sheathed at his side. A voluminous travel cloak the color of the forest draped over his hunched form.

  “That’s one free!” Caltero grunted quietly. He slipped back to Nermesa’s ankle. “See if you can undo your other hand while I deal with your feet.”

  Twisting, Nermesa fumbled with the ropes while his cousin first cut one ankle free, then the other. Caltero helped him remove the last around the wrist, then pulled Nermesa to his feet.

  “No time to lose! Follow me!”

  “My armor—”

  “Will be no use if you spend the time trying to put it on and get captured again!” The elder Klandes stood at the entrance. Sweat covered his face. “Now, hurry!”

  Seeing the sense in Caltero’s words, Nermesa reluctantly abandoned his armor. But just as he was about to leave, he thought of something else. The younger knight twisted out of his cousin’s tight grip and returned to his equipment. Before Caltero could retrieve him, Nermesa pulled free his sword and sheath.

  “Leave that thing,” Caltero all but growled. “I’ve another weapon waiting by the horses!”

  But this was the sword given to him by King Conan, and Nermesa somehow felt that it would give him the extra edge should they be forced to fight. He slipped it on, then stared expectantly at Caltero. Shaking his head, the other Aquilonian turned. They wended their way through the tunnel and out into what proved to be the night.

  “A full day?” Nermesa muttered.

  “Two.”

  That should not have surprised him. That his skull had not been cracked by the powerful blow to it had been a miracle, but between that injury and whatever substance Khati had used to drug him, two days could have been four or more.

  Caltero grabbed his arm, pulling him to the right. “This way.”

  The pair dove into the thickest part of the forest, heading up a gradual incline. Far back, Nermesa heard the beat of drums. He prayed to Mitra that no one would come for him until long after the Aquilonians had made good their es
cape.

  How he had underestimated his cousin. Caltero had risked his own life to come to Nermesa’s aid.

  “How did you ever find me?” he murmured, once they were far from the cave. The moon was only a sickle this night, an omen, perhaps, but one whose lack of light at the moment aided them quite well.

  The other knight fought past a low branch. In an equally low voice, he replied, “When we discovered the remains of your patrol and saw that your breastplate was not among the torsos, I knew that the Picts or the brigands had you. Then I saw Khati looking eager to leave Scanaga, and so I followed her . . .” Caltero’s voice trailed off. “Khati . . .”

  “She’s Khatak’s sister. She’s the one leading his band of brigands . . . and trying to draw the Picts to her cause, too.”

  “She could do it. Khati is very persuasive.”

  Nermesa did not have to be reminded. “She must be stopped! I’ve listened to her. She’s more dangerous than he was!”

  “Of that, I can wholeheartedly agree.” The elder cousin paused. “The horses should await us just ahead—” Caltero suddenly froze.

  Nermesa leaned close. “What?”

  “Thought I heard something behind us.” He readied his weapon. “I’ll slip in back of this tree while you move on as if nothing’s amiss. In the dark, they won’t notice me.”

  “I’m not going to leave you alone to face—”

  “No arguments!” muttered Nermesa’s cousin, pushing him forward. “I’ll be fine . . .”

  Rather than risk their plan coming undone because of his hesitance, Nermesa nodded and continued his way through the brush. He tried to act as if nothing was amiss, even mumbling just loud enough for anyone following to think that Caltero was still with him.

  Ahead, Nermesa heard a slight snort. He sensed movement from there and cautiously drew his weapon.

  A sigh of relief escaped him. It was a horse . . . Caltero’s horse, from what Nermesa could see of it. The animal was tied to a tree. It looked the knight’s way, perhaps thinking that its master had returned.

  Nermesa started toward it . . . then stopped. Frowning, the knight looked around but saw nothing.

  There was only the one horse.

  Instinctively, he spun, sword raised.

  “Ungh!” A sharp point dragged across his back and side, even flickering over his arm. Blood trickled from the long but thankfully shallow wounds.

  His would-be slayer cursed.

  “Why couldn’t you just have stood still!” growled Caltero. “Why couldn’t you have let me make it swift and at least relatively painless? Damn you! You can never leave well enough alone, can you?”

  “Caltero . . .” Nermesa finally managed. “Are you mad? Are you under some sort of Pictish spell?”

  “A Pictish spell? You might say that, cousin. She is a witch, although not in the mystical sense! Oh, she knows about some interesting powders, but her magic goes deeper . . . straight to the head and heart! You’d agree with that, wouldn’t you?”

  Caltero suddenly lunged, almost catching Nermesa off guard. Their blades clashed several times, with Nermesa, unwilling to do anything but defend, forced back.

  Pausing, his cousin continued, “I can’t think without her, or breathe without her! She fills my dreams and my waking moments! I tried drink, but that only made me more pliable to her desires, not defiant to her will!”

  “This is insanity, Caltero!”

  “It is, isn’t it? But I’ve no choice, you see. This is as much as I’ve been able to defy her, bringing you here. She’ll be very mad with me, but I’ll make it up to her with the others!”

  His words made absolutely no sense. Here he was trying to slay Nermesa for her, and he called it defiance?

  “You’re my cousin, after all, cousin!” Caltero went on, still seeking an opening by which to kill the figure before him. “We’ve been as close as brothers, we two. When you first arrived, I was thrilled! When your man, Quentus, died, I mourned him in my way. When Khati said that she intended to take to your bed in order to lull you into false security, I made the sacrifice, no matter how it pained me to see her with you!”

  “And now you’ll gut me to win her favor back?”

  The other knight laughed. “Is that what you think? Cousin, I’m trying to spare you much grief! If you knew what sort of torture and grotesque fate Khati intended for you, you’d thank me!”

  The swords clashed. Grimacing, Nermesa asked, “Why didn’t you just slay me while I was bound?”

  “You’re the dearest of my blood and my closest friend,” Caltero returned blithely—and quite madly. “I couldn’t just cut your throat while you lay there like a calf tied up for the butcher! I was trying to give you a good, clean, and noble death! You would have died thinking you were free, thinking that you could still save the day.” He shrugged. “It was the least I could do for family.”

  Caltero talked as if he truly meant it, which made the situation even more grotesque. Trying to think of a way out of this insanity, Nermesa continued to ply his cousin with questions. “Then why didn’t you kill me as soon as we were outside? I had my back to you more than once.”

  “You took that damned sword with you even though I told you we didn’t have time! I’ve seen your handiwork, cousin! Not as good as mine, but worthy of respect! I had to revise my plan, and that took most of our trek. Thought I’d finally figured it all out perfectly—and then Mitra must’ve whispered in your ear that I was behind you, damn him!”

  Without warning, Caltero once more lunged. This time, his blade caught Nermesa’s wrist, almost making Bolontes’ son drop his sword. Grunting in pain, Nermesa stepped back again . . . and collided with a tree trunk.

  Caltero thrust.

  His blade would have skewered Nermesa just below the throat . . . if his target had still been there. Nermesa barely managed to roll around the trunk. He heard the tip of Caltero’s sword bury itself hard in the wood. Bits of bark pelted Nermesa’s face.

  “Caltero! This makes no sense! We are cousins and Aquilonians! Why can’t we just return to Scanaga? I’ll tell no one what happened!”

  The elder Klandes shook his head. “I can’t betray her that far, Nermesa! She needs your body! She needs you, the slayer of her brother, dead! I have to give her that, don’t you see? She’ll forgive me for keeping you from the horrors she intended, but she’ll expect that you’ll still perish! It’s the only way!”

  Nermesa did not have to see his cousin’s expression to know it would be filled with madness. Caltero’s desire for Khati had led him to allow countless soldiers and settlers to die. His twisted attempt to ease his guilt over his betrayal of Nermesa only further emphasized how deep was the Pict’s hold on him.

  Breathing heavily, Caltero slashed at the trunk, following Nermesa as the latter tried to avoid the attacks. Nermesa tumbled back through the forest, trying desperately to think of what to do against his own blood. He had never imagined having to face one he had held dear to him, but there was no convincing Caltero to cease.

  “Let it end swiftly, cousin!” Caltero snapped. “You keep this up, and the Picts or her brigands will yet find you . . . and then they’ll drag you back to face Gullah’s hunger!”

  “Would it be any worse than being murdered by you?”

  The other Aquilonian laughed harshly. “Oh, yes! You’d be praying to Mitra that he somehow let time flow back to this moment so that I could run you through! You’d scream to her to end it, but she wouldn’t! Trust me on that, cousin! I’m doing what’s best for all concerned!”

  He renewed his attack, but Nermesa met each of his blows. Yet, continued defense would not serve Nermesa much longer. The combination of his captivity and this terrible revelation had drained him significantly. He had to do something, and quickly. It was not just for his own life, either; if he perished, it would, as Caltero had said, help stir up the Picts, send them out once more in search of Aquilonian blood.

  Though he himself would be dead, the slaughter of m
any would be on Nermesa’s hands.

  Caltero lunged yet again . . . and to his surprise, found Nermesa not only parrying his attack, but countering with one of his own.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” growled the veteran knight.

  “What I have to.”

  His treacherous cousin cursed as Nermesa drove him back toward the horse. It was immediately clear that Caltero had underestimated both Nermesa’s resolve and ability.

  “You’ll ruin everything! She’ll never forgive me! I should’ve left you in the cave!”

  “You should have never betrayed me or any of our people in the first place,” the younger Klandes declared grimly.

  He lunged, his blade clanging off of Caltero’s breastplate right where the heart was located.

  The other knight began to attack with some desperation. His swings grew wilder, which in some ways made them deadlier. Nonetheless, Nermesa deflected each and continued to push his cousin back.

  Then, in the distance, the sounds of drums echoed again. They had a frenetic beat to them, as if building up to some dire climax.

  “You hear that?” Caltero muttered. “That’s the call of Gullah! That’s how they summon He Who Lives in the Moon to come to claim his prey! Khati promised them you this night, and they know that she speaks as the favored of the god! I barely got you out of the cave in time!” He cut at Nermesa, almost severing an ear. “And for this you show me such gratitude?”

  “Caltero, you must stop this! I swear I won’t say anything!” Nermesa would not, either. Somehow, he would help his cousin recover from this obsession.

  The other fighter hesitated, then, suddenly lowered his weapon. He looked down, shaking his head at the same time. His other hand fell to the side. “What am I thinking? What’s she done to me?” Caltero glanced up again. “Nermesa . . . you have to help me!”

  Nermesa lowered his own blade. He stepped toward his cousin. “Caltero . . . this will remain between the two of us. Come! Before the Picts arrive, we’ve got to be away—”