He had been fortunate. If not for the foul weather, the practiced hunters would have tracked him easily. As it was, there was still the possibility that some followed. With that to urge him on, Nermesa quickened his pace. He was no coward, but warning Scanaga came first.
On and on he ran, at times not even aware of the trail. Eventually, though, his path led him up a high ridge, which, despite the storm, Nermesa hoped would give him a chance to gain his bearings.
Pausing at the top, Bolontes’ son surveyed the land before him. A river lay ahead and, farther on, areas where the forest actually gave way to open lands. And, farther yet to the east—
Farther yet to the east moved a mass that Nermesa, wiping his eyes momentarily dry, was certain was a column of soldiers.
What they were doing out here, he did not know. Very likely they had come in search of Nermesa, whose body had not been among the dead. Whether or not they found him alive, the Aquilonians had to strike back after yet another harsh slaughter in their very midst. The security of the territories demanded reprisal.
Nermesa opened his mouth to call out, then clamped it shut. Not only would they not hear him from such a distance, but his cry might instead draw the Picts to him. He had to get nearer to the slowly moving column.
Hopes renewed, Nermesa wended his way down the other side of the ridge, half-running, half-sliding. Reaching the bottom in one piece, he leapt through the forest in the direction he estimated would best enable him to meet his comrades. Nermesa had to try to run ahead of the column or else risk having it pass him by. If that happened, he doubted that he would have the strength to catch up to them.
The rain lessened. Nermesa saw it as a sign from Mitra. Luck was at last with him—
A thundering roar ahead made him slow.
He had never heard such violent rumbling. With no idea what could be its cause, Nermesa continued on, but more warily.
And at last, the river he had seen from high above greeted his dismayed gaze . . . a river monstrously swollen by the storm.
The water poured over the banks, spilling almost up to where Nermesa stood. During normal times, it probably would not have been very difficult to cross the river by swimming, but such an attempt at this juncture would have been suicidal.
Yet it stood between him and the others. Nermesa gazed up and down the river, trying to decide which one might better lead him to a possible crossing point. He finally chose downriver, that putting him nearer to the front of the column.
Praying that he had not made the wrong choice, Nermesa raced along the side. He could not see the column from his current vantage point, but prayed that the weather conditions kept it from moving along too swiftly. Besides, surely at some point they, too, would have to cross the rampaging waters. Even a bridge would be risky under these conditions. That might slow them enough to make up for his own trials.
Then he came upon a place where the river narrowed. It was still too dangerous for Nermesa to swim in, but near one turn he spotted three trees lying tangled across it. The swollen river had ripped away the earth holding them. It meant some cautious climbing, but it was the best for which the Aquilonian could hope.
One tree was turned at a precarious angle, but it seemed to support the other two well enough despite that. All the foliage was on the opposing side, which meant that Nermesa would have little obstruction for most of the way.
Climbing over the roots, he tested the firmness of the makeshift bridge. The main trunk constantly shook, but seemed to stay in place. Water washed over it, but Nermesa felt that if he kept his legs wrapped around the trunk, he would be safe.
Sword sheathed, the knight put himself in position, then began sliding his way across. Progress was slow, but at least consistent. It was hard to maintain a grip with his hands, the tree was so soaked. Yet, inch by inch, Nermesa neared his goal.
Utterly drenched as even the rain had not been able to do to him, he finally made it to the first branches. Unfortunately, this also proved his first obstruction. Nermesa was forced to draw his sword and hack away until he created a gap. Only then did he dare sheathe the blade again.
He was forced to rise. The trees continued to rock, but Nermesa had become accustomed to their motion. He started to climb his way through the tops of the fallen giants, the other bank now enticingly close.
A rumble momentarily shook his resolve. If the storm began again in earnest before he reached the other side, it would cause him much trouble. He pushed faster, taking a bit more risk in exchange for the extra distance covered.
The rumbling continued without pause, even building up in intensity . . . and Nermesa realized only then that it could not be thunder. He looked upriver, the direction from which the deafening sound came.
A great wall of water came rushing toward him.
Nermesa tore through the foliage, trying to reach the bank. Only a few more yards, and he would be safe.
His foot tangled in the branches. He tugged it free, but then had to continue to battle through the maze of greenery.
The knight looked up as the thundering reached a crescendo.
Water engulfed Nermesa and the trees. He used the branches to maintain his hold, hoping that the worst of the surge would soon play out.
A low, lingering groan arose from beneath him. The trees shivered violently . . . then began to shift.
The one to which Nermesa clung began to turn over, sending him toward the raging water. The surge pounded at him, half-drowning the Aquilonian even before he plunged into the river.
Nermesa feared that the tree would keep turning until he was completely under it, but it became further entangled with one of the others. He was left with his head just above the surface. The tangled trees turned in the swollen river, following the harsh flow. Nermesa had no choice but to hang on as he was swept along.
The savage waves battered at him. The wriggling branches scraped his flesh. The Aquilonian gritted his teeth and prayed to Mitra that he would somehow survive. He had to reach the others and warn them of Khati’s evil and Caltero’s treachery.
The trees bounced madly as they continued their wild trek down the stormy river. Nermesa’s grip slipped, only the mangled mass of branches—most now stripped of their leaves—keeping him from being lost. He grabbed for one particularly thick one, then succeeded in pulling himself back to the trunk.
His lungs felt filled. Nermesa coughed and choked, but the river would not let him completely regain his breath.
Then, with a collision that almost jarred the knight free again, the trees came to an abrupt halt. For several seconds afterward, Nermesa, certain that the reprieve was only temporary, continued to clutch the trunk tight. When at last he concluded that the trees would not be moving immediately, the weary Aquilonian dragged himself up out of the water.
Straddling the trunk, Nermesa glanced ahead. A bend in the river had soundly caught the trees and other debris. The continued force of the water would likely break them loose again eventually, but Nermesa hoped that he would be on dry land long before that happened.
Still deluged by water, Nermesa crawled toward the bank. He had no idea where he was. The landscape rose high in this region, and the forest was thick. Despite his desire to reach his comrades, Nermesa had no choice but to return to the side upon which he had originally found himself. He could only hope that at least his tumultuous ride had sent him closer to where his fellow soldiers would cross.
The tree rocked as he wended his way, but did not come free. When Nermesa finally set foot on solid—if soaked—earth again, he immediately dropped on his face. For some minutes, the battered noble lay there, forced to waste what he considered precious moments for his own recovery.
The instant that he thought that he could, the Aquilonian pushed himself up and started moving. One hand clutched tight his sheathed sword, whose continued presence he saw as a gift of Mitra. That Nermesa might not have the strength to draw it—much less use it—was a concern he would worry about if the necessity
arose.
The rain came down, but after what Nermesa had suffered in the river, it hardly bothered him. His garments clung to him, and beneath his shirt he could feel the shaman’s pouch. Nermesa thought about tossing it away, but decided not to waste even that much strength. Reaching his goal was all that mattered.
That proved more difficult than ever. Both banks continued to rise, the river cutting a channel through what had once been a single high hill. Nermesa had no choice but to ascend, which made each muddy step feel like five.
Lightning flared. Nermesa constantly glanced across the river but did not see the column. For all he knew, the rain had forced them to halt for the day. If so, while it would mean a longer trek, it would also ensure that he would reach the crossing before them.
Again came the lightning . . . and this time Nermesa froze; the outline of a Pictish warrior had been revealed in that flash.
He ducked behind a tree, then fumbled for his weapon. Dark though the day might be, it was still possible for the Pict to see Nermesa if he looked hard.
Sword free, the Aquilonian came around the other side of the tree. The Pict remained where he was, his attention focused away from Nermesa. The knight moved as quietly as he could to a nearer tree, then another.
Closer and closer, Nermesa came to his quarry. Once, the tattooed warrior glanced over his shoulder toward where the Aquilonian stood, but clearly did not see his enemy approach.
At last, there were no more trunks between Nermesa and the Pict. A few scant yards separated them. Nermesa could cross the remaining distance in seconds, but those seconds could also be enough for the Pict to notice him and prepare to defend. Weary as he was, the knight feared that he would not be able to take on the native without the element of surprise.
Nermesa took a deep breath, raised his sword, and stalked quietly toward the Pict. Each step was measured to prevent some noise from alerting his foe.
The Pict shook off some of the rain that had settled on his shoulders . . . and as he did, he happened to look Nermesa’s way.
The desperate noble lunged.
He drove his sword through the turning Pict’s side, the steel halting at the rib cage. Nermesa’s foe grabbed at the blade, cutting his fingers as he sought to pull free. The native called out, but thunder drowned out his warning. Nermesa continued to shove the sword, at the same time clamping a hand over the warrior’s mouth.
The wound proved too much for the Pict. His eyes grew glassy, and his body shivered. The hands fell to the side . . . the Pict himself dropping moments later.
His breathing rapid, Nermesa eyed the body. Only now did he wonder what this Pict had been doing here. It had almost seemed as if he had been a sentry . . . but for what?
Nermesa belatedly realized that the land ahead sloped downward again. Forgetting the Pict, he trudged forward a few steps, trying to make out any hint of the column. It was possible that they had moved on and might even now be across the river.
But as lightning flashed, it revealed instead a sight that left Nermesa colder than the foul elements did.
The land below swarmed with tattooed warriors armed to the teeth.
A vast force of Picts was moving east . . . toward the unsuspecting column.
18
THE HORDE BELOW made the warriors he had fought against in the battle near Anascaw seem a paltry handful. Even from a distance, Nermesa could see that their numbers included many more tribes. The Aquilonian swore, knowing that these must be the ones summoned by Khati in the name of Gullah.
She had moved swiftly after his escape. How she had convinced the headmen of her continued favor by the savage god was a mystery. She had intended his sacrifice as the sign of her supreme power.
A horrific thought came to Nermesa. Had she used Caltero’s ripped and bloody form instead? Possibly she had been able to convince them that it was Nermesa’s. That made the only sense.
And now Khati intended to further prove the favor of her god by trapping and slaughtering the column.
She had no doubt known through his cousin that a search and reprisal assault were being organized. It made for the perfect show of might. With so many Aquilonians slaughtered, there would never again be any questioning of her leadership.
More than ever, Nermesa had to get past the Picts and warn the others.
Then, the sound of drums drew his attention farther westward. He peered through the rain and mist . . . and saw Khatak’s sister astride her mount, the supposed camp follower now riding like a warrior queen. She wore a high, feathered headdress such as he had seen on great chieftains, and her face was painted with jagged, black lines that gave her a predatory, feline look. Her breasts were cupped by brass, and at her side she carried a sword of Aquilonian make. Behind her flowed a fur cloak from what Nermesa guessed had been a bear. Both beautiful and fearsome, she radiated utter confidence.
Adding to her daunting image was a horrific display attached by rope to the saddle of her horse. The heads of Nermesa’s men hung in a bundle, their vacant eyes staring out. They were not the only ones, either, for the stunned knight also saw at least half a dozen Pict heads, likely from foolish rivals. The grotesque ornaments bounced against the leather and mount as if cheap goods carried by a merchant, not the grisly remains of unfortunate souls.
Around Khati, scarred, foreboding warriors moved as if in the presence of a goddess. When she barked an order, they hastened to obey like frightened children. Impressively, for all the size of her force, the Picts barely made a sound as they moved, and what little they did was certainly drowned out from the ears of the column by the storm.
Nermesa glanced to the east, then back at Khati. A grim determination overcame him. His odds of reaching the soldiers had grown to nil with the coming of the Pict horde, but there was one way yet by which he might avert disaster.
If he could capture Khati, the knight might be able to tear apart her coalition. The tribes were held together by fear and power. If Nermesa proved that Khati was not Gullah’s favored, then the horde might break apart.
It was perhaps a mad notion formulated by an exhausted mind, but it was the best course of action Nermesa could devise. He planted himself against the nearest tree and studied the Picts. Somehow, he would make his way to Khati and seize her.
Surveying the throng, an idea came to him. In addition to her own kind, Khati’s force also consisted of the brigands who had served her half brother. They were a disreputable-looking, filthy bunch that included not just half-breeds like Khatak, but exiled Aquilonians, Bossonians, and more.
And as he presently looked, Nermesa could have easily passed for one of them.
He tore off any traces of his military aspect from his garments. The boots were no trouble, being caked with mud and scratched badly by his journey. Nermesa looked as if he had looted a merchant or dead soldier. Only his sword risked giving him away, for the rain had washed it clean, and its newness still shone through. He sheathed it, instead grabbing the ax the dead Pict had carried.
Hoping that he passed for one of the bandits, Nermesa worked his way toward the back of the horde. He watched those nearest, waiting to make certain that no one would notice when he joined in the march.
The moment it seemed safe, Nermesa slipped from his hiding place, matching the pace and stance of those who had just passed. With each step, he shifted toward the center, where Khati rode.
As Nermesa looked again at the mounted figure, one of the brigands next to her glanced his way. Nermesa immediately grinned as savagely as he could and raised the ax as if in anticipation. The brigand grinned back and brandished his rusty sword.
Emboldened, the Aquilonian picked up his pace. At the same time, he studied those mounted bandits near Khati. They would be his greatest threat when he grabbed her.
Time was rapidly running out. Nermesa had a fairly good notion as to how far the Picts and brigands still had to journey before they reached the place they intended to ambush the column. If the knight was to make his move, i
t would have to be soon.
He was almost within range of her. Intent on the tableau before her, Khati paid no mind to one more minion. Her thirst for power and revenge had her so focused that Nermesa believed that he could walk up next to the woman, look her in the eye, and still not be recognized.
He casually looped the ax on his belt. Both hands would need to be free for what he planned.
Nermesa could almost touch the horse’s flank now. The bobbing heads often twisted his way, almost as if to remind him that if he failed, he would soon be one of their number. Some of the Pict heads were even fresher than those of the Aquilonians—
And one of those, wearing an almost toothless grin of defiance, was Tokanu’s.
The appearance of the shaman’s head among Khati’s horrific trophies must have so startled Nermesa that he had made some sound, for Khati immediately turned in the saddle and glared down at the knight.
He had been wrong; the intense blaze filling her eyes gave clear indication that, despite his wild appearance, Khati immediately recognized Nermesa.
“You . . .” she growled like a wolf. “The lion warrior!”
Nermesa attempted to seize her arm, but she twisted out of reach. Several of those around them looked to see what the commotion was about.
“Take him!” Khati demanded to the brigand who had earlier locked gazes with Nermesa. “Quickly!”
Somewhat befuddled, the shaggy, scarred bandit nonetheless obeyed quickly, swinging hard at the Aquilonian with his sword. Nermesa pulled free the ax and parried the attack, then retreated. Caught by surprise, his adversary stumbled, allowing Nermesa time to drop the ax for his favored sword.
Khati reached for the blade by her side, one that Nermesa suspected she could wield as well as—if not even better than—Khatak. Aware that he now faced certain death, Nermesa quickly lunged at the brigand, running him through. He moved to meet Khati, but two more of her followers ran toward him.
The God in the Moon Page 24
