She nodded, then gave him an imperious wave of dismissal. All fell into place as Khati intended, a sign that she was truly favored by the spirits. Gullah truly watched over her.
Thinking of the god brought her focus back to the bane of her existence, the cursed lion warrior, Nermesa. The spirits had been strong in him, and his countless escapes from death had perturbed her more than Khati had let on to her followers. His sacrifice before the headmen of the tribes would have not only solidified her influence over them but eased her own qualms.
The outlander had to be dead by now, though. He was clever like the fox and as ferocious as the badger, but this time he would not escape his doom. Her Gullah would tear him apart, rip open his throat, then bring the mangled pieces back for her pleasure.
It had been she and her brother who had first found the giant in the northern hill lands. Khatak’s band had retreated there after the invaders had attempted a strong thrust to rid the wilderness of his troublemaking. Her brother had been all for standing and fighting them to the death—his death most likely—but, as she had always done, Khati had counseled him into a more sensible decision. As she had suspected, the Aquilonians had not followed into the unexplored northern hills—a land plagued by unpredictable earth tremors—giving the brigands a chance to regroup and recover.
And while they had been doing so, she had come across the cave. Khatak and she had intended it for use as a place to store their ill-gotten gains, for who would search in such a desolate region? Even the rogues they commanded would not be able to find it.
But the cave proved an unstable place, with treacherous ceilings that crumbled loose when a new tremor struck. It proved not to be the first such catastrophe to occur in the cave of late, either. The two found evidence of another, very recent collapse . . . and in the process discovered that they were not alone.
He lay pinned under the shattered ceiling, injured and stunned. Clearly he had lain so for several days. Khatak uttered the name that had forever changed their lives. Gullah . The being before them had looked as the god was described by the shamans, but clearly no god could have been held prisoner by mere stone.
Khatak had been for leaving the unnerving man-beast to his fate. Yet Khati saw immediately the potential for such a being. Convincing her brother to help, they alone freed the imprisoned giant and she had, over the next few weeks, treated his wounds by herself. During that time, her quick wit had enabled the Pict to learn much about their new companion.
Most important, there had been a mind behind those black eyes, and it seized upon the brother and sister as saviors. Gullah—what more appropriate name for him?—was clever, to a point, quickly learning and obeying the signals and gestures they taught him.
When Khatak’s band learned of the giant, they reacted just as Khati expected . . . with fear and awe. It was then that her plan grew. Khatak’s father had been a brigand like himself, an eastern exile who had chosen life among the People. He had been a man of power, and when he had died, Khatak’s mother had married one of her own, Khati’s father. Through Khatak, Khati had learned to see beyond merely the tribal ways. Her ambition to be more than the mate of a warrior grew, and she had no difficulty convincing Khatak, wise enough to see her intelligence, of her value as a spy and planner.
But the discovery of Gullah had given her an even greater ambition. Together, she and Khatak could use him to draw the People to their efforts. As the easterners had their single rulers, so, too, would the Picts.
That Khatak had perished before that day could come had angered her. She had also feared that her people would slip away now that there was only her—a female—to lead them. Fortunately, Gullah had removed the first with such intentions, and the rest, seeing how the “god” had punished those turning against Khati, had fallen back into line.
She glanced over her shoulder, but there was no sign of him. By now, he should have caught his prey. Perhaps the riders had gotten in his way. Khati shrugged; if they were foolish enough to do so, then they deserved whatever he did to them.
She shook off all concern about the lone Aquilonian’s surviving. His blood would be hers. Gullah wanted him as much as she did. She had learned how to read the giant’s emotions. Gullah would let nothing keep him from destroying Nermesa this time.
Just as she would destroy the unsuspecting soldiers ahead.
Khati rode tall, thinking of the victory, the many heads that would decorate the People’s spears. Her puppet, Caltero, had made that possible. She had wrapped the lovesick fool around her finger and made him willing to sell his own kind for the pleasures of her body. Only with his cousin had he felt some guilt, and for that failure to her he had paid. His own battered, torn corpse had made an adequate imitation of Nermesa, at least as far as the tribal leaders had been concerned. The resemblance between the two had been sufficient, especially since the battering his face had taken had removed any noticeable difference. Besides, the headmen of the tribes barely knew one Aquilonian from another.
Her reverie was interrupted by another brigand far ahead. This one waved, then pointed eastward. The moment was nearly at hand. Her followers were in position, and the unsuspecting column crossed the river.
Khati smiled, and though her teeth were not filed in the manner of a warrior of her kind, they was no less predatory. She could smell the invaders even from so far away. The Aquilonians carried a stench upon them that revolted any of the People. Soon, that stench would be erased. Khati could already taste the many deaths to come.
Licking her lips, the Pict urged her mount on.
COME, NERMESA . . . RISE . . . you can’t lie there and die . . .
The Aquilonian shook as something within him stirred. He wanted to inhale deeply, but some terrible force all but crushed in his chest. Vague memories of the monstrosity against which he had been fighting rose up. Had Gullah beaten him to a pulp and left his broken body to the elements? Could the reason that Nermesa could barely breathe be that his ribs had been crushed into his lungs?
You can’t die out here . . . not you, too . . .
The voice in his head was not his own, yet, there was a comfortable familiarity about it. It gave him encouragement. Nermesa fought open his eyes . . .
And stared straight into the horrific countenance of Gullah.
The knight gasped, certain that the man-beast would next bite off his face. Yet Gullah did nothing but stare down, fanged mouth open.
Open . . . but emitting no breath.
Nermesa looked into the eyes. As fearsome as they were, he gradually saw in them a lack of focus. Gullah did not stare back at him . . . Gullah simply stared, unseeing.
The god of the Picts was dead.
Struggling, Nermesa managed to get a hand up by the giant’s chest. A moistness covering the furred body almost made the hand slip, but the Aquilonian persevered. Summoning his strength, he pushed.
Gullah’s limp body tipped to the side, sprawling on the ground next to Nermesa.
The effort cost him. Pain ripped through his body. Nermesa started to black out.
Don’t let the darkness claim you . . . fight it . . .
He knew that voice. His lips struggled to form the name. “Q-Quentus?”
There was no response, of course. Vaguely, Nermesa knew that all he heard were his own thoughts. Quentus was merely the form his addled mind had used to drive him on.
It served well enough. Forcing himself to stay conscious, Nermesa pushed himself slowly to his feet. His eyes remained fixed on the blood-splattered giant lying next to him, as if at any moment Gullah would prove to be the god the Picts believed him and come back to life to punish the Aquilonian.
The man-beast stayed very dead, however, the blood congealing on his chest. Nermesa’s desperate swing had cut a fatal swathe from the lower side of one breast up through the throat. Despite his monstrous size, Gullah must have died almost instantly. Momentum had kept the body going, however, and in death the giant had nearly claimed the knight.
Thi
nking of his sword, Nermesa glanced around anxiously. Fortunately, the blade lay not far away. Nermesa vaguely recalled its being knocked from his grip as his huge foe barreled into him.
He stumbled over to the weapon. In his weakened state, it felt as heavy as Gullah. Nonetheless, he gratefully gripped the sword, aware, though, that his one victory did not mean he was safe from harm. There were likely still searchers in the forest, and even if that were not the case, hundreds of Picts lay between him and safety.
The rain had ceased, and a mist covered much of the soaked region. Nermesa stood motionless for a moment, uncertain as to his next move. He did not even know in which direction lay the ambush.
A trickling sound caught his attention. Water. Either runoff from the storm or maybe even a stream. Despite the inherent dampness all around him, he turned toward the sound, suddenly very thirsty.
The source of the trickling proved farther than he had thought it would be. Nermesa slashed at the undergrowth as he searched for it. The water became of overwhelming importance to him.
At last, he came to a narrow stream coursing through a small clearing. The pristine water enticed Nermesa. He went to the edge, set the sword aside, and drank.
It seemed as if he had never tasted anything sweeter. The knight swallowed handful after handful. His thoughts cleared a little.
When he had finished drinking, Nermesa continued to splash water in his face. That he would need to do so after nearly drowning in the river and being drenched by the storm seemed incongruous, but the splashing did help.
Finally satiated, Nermesa sat. Even though he knew that he needed to find his way back, he was also aware that his body had been through an ordeal. A few moments’ rest was necessary.
But barely had he relaxed when a low growl set the hair on the back of his neck standing.
This deep in the wilderness, the presence of wolves should not have surprised him. Moving slowly and cautiously, Nermesa shifted his head so as to locate the animal.
It was not a wolf . . . not exactly. There were lupine features, but they were mixed with canine ones. This was no natural denizen of the forest but rather a mix of wolf and hound. The hound must have been a huge beast itself, for the product of its mating stood far taller than any wolf. It had a blunter nose, too, but long, sharp ears like its other parent.
A crude, spiked collar decorated its throat, the sharp, rusting nails almost as long as Nermesa’s hand. The gray-brown beast eyed Nermesa with hungry orbs.
The Aquilonian began to slide his hand toward his blade.
Another low growl from the opposite direction made him freeze again immediately.
He managed to shift his head just enough to see the second creature, one clearly of a similarly mixed heritage. The second was slightly smaller than the first, but no less imposing because of that. It, too, wore a spiked collar.
A third then shuffled through the brush, its evil face bearing the worst aspects of both parents. Nermesa knew that these could only belong to Khati’s bandits. Someone, perhaps even she, had had the intelligence to unleash the animals on him. The Aquilonian had certainly left enough of himself—especially his blood—for the villains to use to give their hounds the scent. The cessation of the rain had proven just what the animals needed.
Nermesa glanced around but saw no sign of their handlers. They could not be far behind, however. More to the point, the brigands likely did not even worry about catching up. These beasts appeared trained to kill . . . which, in the case of Nermesa, was exactly what their masters desired.
Again, he attempted to slide his hand closer to the sword. The moment his fingers moved, though, all three animals growled, and two took steps toward him. When Nermesa stilled, they did likewise, at least temporarily.
But sooner or later, they would have his measure; and then they would attack. Nermesa had to decide whether he wanted to instigate things or react to their move.
He grabbed for the sword.
The dogs charged.
His legs unsteady, the knight met the first beast, slashing at its muzzle. The animal howled and dropped back, a wicked red scar along the right side of the jaw. If anything, though, the wound only seemed to infuriate the dog. It snapped at Nermesa, seeking his hand.
At the same time, the other pair closed. One leapt for his throat, while the other dove low. The desperate Aquilonian kicked at the second, managing to shove it back, but the weight of the first sent Nermesa back. The knight fought to keep his balance, knowing that if he fell, the dogs would have him.
Slavering jaws snapped at his face, his throat. Doing his best to avoid the spiked collar, Nermesa used his free hand to keep the monster at bay, at the same time slashing with the sword at the other two beasts.
Claws tore at what remained of Nermesa’s shirt. He grunted in pain as the nails scored his chest. With a growl of his own, the Aquilonian finally threw the beast from him. The wolf-dog whined as it hit the ground, then quickly scrambled to a standing position.
The dog to his left chose then to try to take Nermesa down. This time, the fighter was ready, though, and as the beast leapt, he skewered it through the stomach.
But as the one perished, the third also lunged. It snapped at Nermesa’s leg. He struck it soundly on the head, forcing the jaws away, but not before they had broken the skin.
The two animals pulled back. Taking a chance, Nermesa leaned forward, and shouted, “No!”
The two dogs instinctively cowered at the harsh command. At this point, Nermesa looked enough like one of their masters. The reaction lasted only a moment, though, the animals rising and growling once more.
Yet the hesitation was all that Nermesa had sought. He thrust at the nearest, the sword’s tip going deep in the side of the neck.
The dog let out a howl and turned away. Blood streamed from the wound. The animal was dead but did not yet realize it.
The loss of its other companion in no manner shook the last and largest of the hounds. It charged Nermesa even as he drew back his blade from the attack on the second dog.
This time, the knight could not keep on his feet. He and his canine foe collapsed in a heap of snarling fangs and grasping fingers. Nermesa’s sword proved more hindrance than help, and he finally let go of it.
When at last they ceased rolling, it was Nermesa atop the beast. A primal fury surged through the Aquilonian. He had survived betrayal, blades, and the horror of Gullah. He would not let himself perish at the jaws of a hound!
Nermesa’s fingers slipped below the deadly collar and tightened on the beast’s throat. The dog’s actions grew more agitated. Claws raked the knight, but he paid them no mind. Nermesa squeezed.
He heard the crack of bone and felt flesh and sinew give way. The massive animal shook violently in his grip, but Nermesa refused to let go.
Finally, with a last, strained grunt, the dog went limp.
It took Nermesa several seconds more to recognize the dog’s death. Hands shaking, he let go of the body.
Looking up, the Aquilonian saw no sign of the third beast. He had no fear of it, though, certain of its imminent demise. Exhausted, Nermesa located the sword, then returned to the stream. He washed the blood and drool off as best he could, taking special care on his new cuts.
As Nermesa leaned forward to wipe his face, he caught sight of himself in the water. Even considering the distortions caused by the running water, the man he saw staring back at him startled the noble. Under the cuts and bruises was a face he did not recognize save that it bore some distant resemblance to his father. It was not the young, untried visage of Nermesa Klandes, not even the one of a few short days ago.
Shuddering, Bolontes’ son pulled back. He remained by the stream just long enough to clean off the blade. The weapon still looked new despite the battles and deaths of which it had been a part.
And there was yet one more it needed to join.
Nermesa looked around, trying to estimate exactly where he had to go. Keeping the sword ready, he stumbled
on.
The Aquilonian constantly glanced at the overcast sky. “Mitra,” he muttered once. “Give me the strength and speed to make it there in time . . .”
But even if he did, Nermesa had no idea what he could do to salvage survival—much less victory—for his comrades.
He trudged through the forest, listening constantly. As of yet, no sound of battle echoed in the wilderness. Nermesa prayed that it was no trick of the land that kept the cries and clashes of steel from his ears.
Thunder roiled, and lightning occasionally flashed. No new deluge fell, but if it had, Nermesa would not have been daunted. He would reach the others somehow.
Then, in the underbrush, the knight saw a large, furred shape. It did not move, but Nermesa recalled the third dog. If still alive and very wounded, it might be crazed enough to attack.
However, the furred form did nothing as he neared, and finally Nermesa got close enough to recognize it.
He had found his way back to Gullah without realizing it. Nermesa pondered his path. He had not been moving in as straight a line as he had imagined. He had wasted more precious minutes.
The monstrous visage seemed to smile mockingly. Nermesa wondered if the Pict god had actually had something to do with his meandering trek. Was this Gullah’s revenge for slaying his mortal shadow?
As he paused to rethink his path, Nermesa heard the snort of a horse. Muscles taut, the Aquilonian hid among the underbrush near the massive corpse.
Mere seconds later, an unsavory figure astride a black charger rode into sight. Long brown hair plastered to his head and shoulders, the scarred and bearded brigand looked none too pleased to be out in the forest. In his right hand he held a stained but quite usable hand ax, and at his side was sheathed a sword. The brigand wore a breastplate that had once adorned the chest of an Aquilonian knight.
The newcomer peered warily from under thick brows, his slanted eyes taking in everything. Standing, he would have been taller than Nermesa. His animal was a powerful beast, one with markings also indicating its past as part of Aquilonia’s military.
The God in the Moon Page 26
