The God in the Moon

by Richard A. Knaak

  He cried out as Caltero’s other hand came up and plunged a dagger into his forearm. Nermesa’s sword dropped.

  Despite the wound, he attempted to retrieve the weapon. However, as Nermesa bent, he sensed Caltero draw back his sword.

  “This is for the best for all of us,” the traitorous knight muttered.

  The foliage above them rustled. Both Nermesa and Caltero looked up into the dark trees.

  With a blood-chilling roar, something dropped down on Caltero.

  He tried to fend it off, but before he could get his sword up, it was upon him. In the blackness of night, it resembled most an inky blob, but the familiar stench told Nermesa exactly what had come upon the pair.

  Khatak’s fur-clad servant, a being Nermesa no longer believed could be human.

  And then a name came unbidden to him . . . Gullah . . .

  The massive shape turned from the startled Caltero toward Nermesa. The latter fumbled for his sword, aware that he would not be ready in time.

  But, in his shock, Caltero made a dreadful mistake. He slashed at the thick body of the attacker. The angle ensured that his strike did not even cut the skin, but it was enough to draw the ire of the fearsome being.

  With a roar, the man, beast, or god, seized Nermesa’s cousin in one huge hand and lifted him up into the air.

  Nermesa went to the aid of Caltero, but a random swing by the unnoticing giant struck the would-be rescuer in the head with such force that it flung him back. Nermesa collided hard against the horse, which was frantically tugging on the tied reins.

  The giant threw Caltero to the ground. Caltero screamed, and in his agony, continued to make desperate, foolish swings that only served to further enrage his horrific adversary. The furred form fell upon him again.

  Stunned and still not fully recovered from his captivity, Nermesa stumbled in the dark, trying to focus. As he glanced back at the struggle, he saw Caltero raised toward the face of the giant. A memory from the attack on the patrol flashed through Nermesa’s muddled mind, a vision of deadly fangs. He started forward, still hoping to save his cousin despite the latter’s treachery.

  But Nermesa’s head suddenly throbbed where Gullah had struck him. His legs grew unsteady, and the only thing that saved him from falling was clutching to the horse.

  The giant shook Caltero like a rag doll and raked the man’s chest with his nails. Caltero screamed.

  Even through the throbbing, Nermesa realized that he could no longer do anything to save his cousin. In fact, in his present condition, he only presented Gullah with an easy second victim.

  More important, the fort had to be warned of Caltero’s betrayal and Khati’s ambitions. Despite a part of him screaming that he rush to Caltero’s aid, Nermesa knew that he had but one choice. He twisted around, seeking in the dark the horse’s reins.

  But at that moment, the panicked horse reared, ripping the reins free from the tree where Caltero had tied them. It turned from the struggle and prepared to race off.

  Nermesa saw his chance—Scanaga’s chance—slipping away. With his free hand, he lunged for the saddle. He managed to grab the straps just as the animal moved.

  The horse ran, and as it did, it dragged Nermesa along with it. In his other hand, he clutched his sword tight, aware that it was his only weapon should the creature come after him.

  The frenzied steed pulled him farther and farther from Caltero. Exhausted, his wounds throbbing, Nermesa simply did what he could to hold on. The uncaring mount dragged him against trees, branches, and brambles. He shut his eyes for fear that they would be poked out.

  Far back, he heard his cousin cry out. The scream shook him to the core . . . then cut off with a terrible finality.

  Nermesa mourned Caltero, even knowing him for what he was and what he had tried to do. He choked, the tears catching in his throat.

  The horse had no apparent sense of where it wanted to go. It merely dragged Nermesa on and on. The sounds of the drums receded, but he felt certain that, at any moment, the thing that had slaughtered Caltero would drop on them from the thick foliage above.

  Then, the horse suddenly stumbled, falling toward the side on which the Aquilonian hung. The movement battered Nermesa against a thick oak.

  He tore free of the saddle. Stunned, the knight spun around. His sword flew from his grip.

  Crashing to the ground, Nermesa rolled through the brush. He collided with a rock.

  And with a groan, stilled.

  17

  CHANTING PIERCED THE darkness.

  Chanting in the Pictish tongue.

  Nermesa woke with a start, certain that he was once more Khati’s prisoner and that his sacrifice to the natives’ god was imminent. He pulled at his wrists, hoping to free them . . . and discovered only then that they were not even bound.

  In fact, only one ankle was tied, and that loosely. It slowed the Aquilonian down just long enough for him to register his surroundings as other than the cave of Khatak’s villainous sister.

  Instead, he lay in a frame-and-animal-skin hut. The skulls of various animals hung from leather straps affixed to the wooden frame above. To his side stood a variety of clay jars that reminded Nermesa of those that Khati had kept in her sanctum.

  The sensation that he was being watched made the knight look left. There, seated before a low fire—the only source of light in the hut—was what at first looked like the mummified remains of a Pict elder clad only in an old loincloth. The tattoos covering his body had a faded look and on many parts of his torso had collapsed in on themselves. The mouth barely had lips of which to speak, the flesh even curled back. Yet, no mummy had such black, penetrating eyes that even now stared back at Nermesa.

  A shaman.

  Nermesa reached for his sword . . . and found the sheath empty. The scrape of metal made him look again at the Pict, where he discovered the wizened, bald figure now presenting him with the gleaming weapon.

  “The lion’s bite.” The shaman’s voice sounded like wood crackling in the fire, yet there was something about the horribly gaunt figure that warned Nermesa not to take him lightly.

  The elderly Pict continued to hold out Nermesa’s weapon until the Aquilonian finally rose to retrieve it. Even though the knight loomed over the almost-naked figure, Nermesa had no desire to attack. Thus far, his host had only given him aid.

  Although why any Pict, especially one of their revered shamans, would do so, concerned Nermesa more than he revealed.

  “Thank you,” he said as he sheathed the blade.

  The Pict nodded, then, with a bony hand, indicated for Nermesa to sit across from him. Not certain just why he should, the Aquilonian nevertheless obeyed.

  The elder cackled. “The lion outplays Gullah again . . .”

  Mention of Gullah sent shivers down Nermesa’s spine. He recalled Caltero’s hopeless struggle and that last, soul-wrenching scream. The Aquilonian’s grip instinctively tightened around the sword’s hilt.

  “Be calm. The lion’s bite is not needed here . . .”

  Nermesa in no manner relaxed. He eyed the shaman with open suspicion. “You know my tongue well.”

  “To know how the enemy thinks is to have power over them. I learn long, learn well. Use well, too.”

  “If your people and mine are enemies, why did you bring me here? Why not slay me while I was unconscious?”

  The skeletal figure did not answer at first, instead taking from a pouch a pinch of powder and tossing it into the low flames. At the same time, he muttered some unintelligible words.

  Nermesa fell back as the fire exploded upward, the flames turning a startling green in the process. The display lasted but a few scant seconds, though, the fire then returning to its previous state.

  Behind the flames, the wizened Pict’s gaze took on an unsettling aspect. He appeared to be staring beyond Nermesa into another world, and when he spoke, his voice carried the timbre of someone much stronger than his gaunt frame indicated.

  “The invaders will be sw
ept from the lands of the People, and many heads will decorate the ceremonial fires. Fallen warriors will be honored. Blood will rule the day and night. The tall villages of the invaders will burn, and their totem will be trampled. The People will fall over their lands, and the memory of their arrogance will be all that remains of the invaders . . .”

  The knight shivered despite himself, aware that his host spoke of Aquilonia in such dreadful terms. The shaman said all with a tone of certainty, of finality, as if this was the only future for the realm.

  Nermesa clenched his sword tighter. He would not sit idly by while Khati’s followers spread death through the territories and beyond.

  But as Nermesa started to stand, the Pict elder suddenly shifted his gaze and, sounding like himself again, added, “But that day is far, and enemies must sometime become shield brothers against others.” He cocked his head at the wary Aquilonian. “The bear must join with the lion . . . even if it is against Gullah.”

  Only then did Nermesa notice the ursine skull positioned so dominantly above where the other sat. The ferocious jaws were open wide in defiance, and even though no flesh remained, he almost felt as if the black pits stared back at him.

  “Gullah is strong, lion warrior. To defeat him, you must be stronger.”

  Nermesa met the gaze of the shaman. “I don’t understand a word of what you say! If I am no prisoner, then let me depart. I have to get back to the fort. If you try to stop me—”

  “I am old,” the Pict remarked with a grin. Of his sharpened teeth, only a handful remained. He dismissed Nermesa’s threat with a wave of his gnarled hand. “An old Tokanu is no danger to you.”

  Nermesa was not so certain of that. Besides, it was not only the shaman with whom he was concerned. How many warriors waited outside, ready to charge in at a single call from their holy man?

  As if reading his thoughts, Tokanu gestured toward the flap leading out. “Please. Look for yourself. No harm will there be.”

  Drawing the blade, Nermesa went to the entrance. He heard no sounds from without, but Picts could be very silent when the situation demanded it. Prodding aside the leather skin flap with the tip of his blade, the Aquilonian peered outside.

  It was still dark. Nermesa hoped that this meant that he had only been unconscious for a little while, not an entire day or more.

  Then he noticed something else. Tokanu had spoken the truth when he had said that no harm awaited Nermesa outside. That was because there were no warriors, no village whatsoever. The shaman’s hut sat in the middle of the forest, hidden so well by the surrounding trees and brush that Nermesa doubted that he would have seen it had he stood only ten yards away.

  Slipping back inside, the noble faced the placid Pict. “What goes on here?”

  “The Bear people follow the favored of Gullah. They believe the false words that this is the day of the People. Tokanu knows better. Tokanu knows that day is not. That day still comes, but many seasons must pass, and Tokanu and all here now will be long dust.”

  “Tokanu was not believed,” Nermesa hazarded, ignoring the rest. “Tokanu was cast out, wasn’t he?”

  His rescuer spat. “They believe the she-devil over Tokanu! A female! First the mongrel, then the she-devil . . .”

  She-devil. Khati. Nermesa suspected that Tokanu had been a powerful and respected shaman before his objection to her and Khatak’s plan. He had probably been fortunate to escape with his life, considering how merciless the pair were. “Tokanu doesn’t fear Gullah?”

  “All should fear Gullah,” the skeletal Pict warned. “All.” His fingers closed on a tiny pouch around his neck, one bound with a long leather loop. He held it for Nermesa to see. “But Gullah and his children can be discouraged,” Tokanu added cryptically.

  “What do you mean?”

  With astonishing ease, the shaman rose to his feet without any use of either his arms or aid from the Aquilonian. Standing, Tokanu turned out to be taller than average for his people, but still several inches shorter than Nermesa. He removed the pouch from his person, reached up, and hung it around the startled Aquilonian’s own neck. A slight, unsettling odor that Nermesa could not identify emanated from the tiny cloth pouch. He wanted to remove it, but thought better of it for the moment.

  Tokanu muttered something in Pictish, then touched the pouch reverently. In Aquilonian, he then added, “Let it touch the heart, for there it will gain strength.”

  Nermesa assumed that the elder meant that he should slip it under his shirt. Although not certain why he did, the knight obeyed. At the very least, Tokanu had so far done him only good, taking him from where he lay and tending to his wounds. The dagger thrust by Caltero did not even hurt, only throbbed, thanks to some poultice bound to it. For now, Nermesa would humor the Pict. He could always remove the pouch once he was far away.

  The question was . . . which way should he go from here? He had no idea where the horse had dragged him.

  “I thank you for the gift, Tokanu.”

  “It is not a gift. It is a weapon.” The hairless shaman indicated what appeared to be a water sack and a thick pouch next to it. “That is a gift. Water. Food. Take. The lion must be strong against Gullah. It is the only hope.”

  Nodding, Nermesa took the offerings and stepped outside. Tokanu followed. The Aquilonian gazed around, trying to get his bearings but not succeeding.

  “There,” said Tokanu, pointing ahead. “There must you go.”

  “That will lead me back to Scanaga?”

  “It is the path you must take,” his benefactor answered curtly. He eyed the sky. “The spirits of the wind and clouds feud again.”

  By that, Nermesa could only assume that Tokanu meant that there was bad weather brewing. The nighttime heavens had already grown overcast, the clouds thick and turbulent. The battered noble steeled himself; whatever the elements chose to do, he had to reach Scanaga. They had to be told what Khati intended. Nermesa had no doubt that through Caltero and her own wiles she knew far too much about the territorial capital’s defenses.

  And if Scanaga fell . . . the rest of the Westermarck would soon follow.

  He turned to bid farewell to Tokanu, but the shaman had already disappeared inside his rounded hut. Within, the ancient Pict began muttering, but his words were in Nermesa’s language, not his own.

  “The fires cleanse the land of the Lion . . . the People come from the forest . . . the heads will be many. . . .”

  Gritting his teeth, Nermesa trotted off. Even though Tokanu’s voice quickly faded away, what he had said remained with the Aquilonian. Nermesa had no notion as to whether in the end the shaman had been referring again to his prediction of the distant future—one with which the knight would have argued—or the current threat. He only knew one thing: He had to do whatever he could to keep catastrophe from sweeping over the Westermarck.

  Even if he had to face the god Gullah himself.

  DAWN, SUCH AS it was, arrived perhaps two hours later. With it came thunder and lightning and a harsh wind. The threat of rain was imminent.

  With the dawn also came a terrible realization . . . that Tokanu had sent him in the opposite direction from that which the Aquilonian had desired.

  The first glimmer of daytime was a vague lightening of the darkness at the horizon from pitch-black to a heavy gray. Unfortunately, this occurred behind Nermesa, which meant that he was not going east, as he had supposed, but rather west, deeper into Pict country. That the shaman had tricked him should not have surprised Nermesa. Recalling Tokanu’s words, the Aquilonian saw that the wizened figure had simply said that the direction he had pointed was the path that Nermesa had to take . . . at least, where the shaman was concerned. Tokanu’s interest did not involve saving Scanaga but rather creating trouble for Khati.

  Nermesa swore. He immediately turned around and headed the way he wanted to go. He would not trust to some secret plot by the ousted shaman. The only hope of avoiding terrible bloodshed on both sides was for him to reach the capital as soon as poss
ible.

  But that might take days on foot, assuming he even lived that long. Nermesa had to hope that he would come across a horse at some point. The Picts made use of them. If he came upon a lone scout or hunter, perhaps there was hope.

  In the meantime, he had to keep walking.

  The wind howled at his back and more than once Nermesa thought that he heard the cry of the thing that had killed Caltero. Again, Nermesa thought of how the murderous figure could not merely be some monstrously gigantic brigand; whatever had slain so many, including Quentus, was not human, not quite.

  Was it indeed Gullah?

  Rain started coming down, and although the storm did push him forward, it also made his footing unstable. He slipped on wet tree roots and rocks and caught his feet in mud. It was only a matter of time before he would fall on his face.

  Grasping onto a tree trunk for support, Nermesa paused to chew on some dried meat—and at the same time found himself staring into the face of a Pict warrior.

  The tattooed warrior was as startled as he, gaping wide at Nermesa with his filed teeth displayed. Only when lightning flashed the next second did he react . . . but by then the Aquilonian had already thrust.

  The Pict let out a short cry as the sword sank deep into his stomach. As Nermesa pushed the body away, he heard excited voices. The scout had not been alone after all. Cursing, the knight shifted to the south, hoping that he could avoid the warrior’s companions. The storm made the going slow, but Nermesa hoped that his pursuers would suffer as much as he.

  He was not so lucky. Another Pict leapt out of the trees on his left, taking Nermesa down. The Aquilonian struggled as the savage warrior gained the advantage. Grinning, the Pict tried to bash in Nermesa’s skull with his ax, but the noble managed to bring it to a halt just above his forehead.

  The other voices drew near. Calling upon manic strength, Nermesa twisted the Pict under him, then jammed his fist into the latter’s throat. As the Pict gasped for breath, Nermesa struck him hard on the jaw.

  Leaving the stunned warrior where he lay, the Aquilonian continued to stumble south. His feet seemed to snag on every weed or root, but still Nermesa made progress. The voices started to drift farther west.