Nermesa tried to keep his breathing quiet, but each inhalation and exhalation sounded in his ears like the thunder. He was certain that the bandit could hear him, yet the latter made no sign.
Then the rider abruptly straightened. He pulled sharply on the reins. The bandit glared in Nermesa’s direction, almost causing the Aquilonian to leap out.
The rider urged his mount closer. He held the ax ready, but not as if he believed a battle imminent.
Just yards from where Nermesa hid, the bandit tugged on the reins again. Eyes ever staring ahead, he dismounted. Guiding his horse along, the hunter took a few tentative steps . . . and stopped at the body of the man-beast.
A string of epithets escaped the villain’s lips. He halted the charger, then bent down to investigate better the startling discovery. The bearded bandit ran his fingers along the massive wound, expression one of utter disbelief.
A noise from far away made the rider leap to his feet in nervousness. Nermesa, too, all but jumped. It was impossible to mistake the sound for anything but what it was.
The distant clash of arms.
Khati’s followers had ambushed the soldiers.
An intake of breath escaped Nermesa. He tried too late to smother it.
The brigand whirled.
Nermesa leapt from the underbrush, roaring as he closed on his pursuer. The startled rider deflected his first attack but made no attempt to follow through. His expression was filled with shock and dismay. Nermesa must have looked like a demon to him.
The knight gave the other no quarter. Bringing his blade back around, Nermesa sliced through his foe’s weapon arm. The brigand screamed as his limb hung loosely. He scrambled to pull his sword free with his remaining hand, but the awkward angle left him wide open for Nermesa, who ran him through.
As the brigand dropped, the Aquilonian grabbed for the horse’s reins. He need not have feared that the charger would attempt to flee, however. The horse was seemingly unperturbed by the bloody struggle before it. Nermesa again marked its likely training as a steed of war and thanked Mitra for delivering unto him such a fine choice.
With the charger, he could still reach the battle and at least lend his hand. That it was too late to do anything else greatly distressed the knight, but he would at least not stand idly by while his comrades perished.
As he mounted, Nermesa’s gaze fell upon Gullah, the source of much of the Aquilonians’ troubles. It had been fear of the god that had enabled Khatak and Khati to stir up the Picts. As his favored, they had set the entire Westermarck and wilderness on the path of destruction . . .
His eyes narrowed. Nermesa studied the horrific face closer.
Fear of Gullah drove the Picts . . .
20
IT HAD FALLEN to Konstantin to lead the column out following the disappearance of both Nermesa and Caltero. While more than willing to take on the role, Konstantin would have much preferred either of the other two to be here . . . but then, if that had been the case, the column would have never gone out at all.
It was Caltero’s vanishing that most disturbed the commanding knight. He understood Nermesa’s disappearance, however dreadful it had been. That had been the impetus for gathering together the finest of the Westermarck’s protectors. Caltero, on the other hand, was a story with far too many questions. The elder Klandes had seemingly ridden out on his own without giving any word to his comrades. While it was most likely that he had gone in search of his cousin, Konstantin could not understand why he had first ordered this march, then had not even waited for the troops to collect.
Konstantin was wary about leading the soldiers into this area, but he was a man who followed his training. Logic said to proceed on this path and mete out retribution to the tribes. That was what his superiors had taught him. If he found either cousin alive, that was an added bonus, but not necessarily his concern. The Picts had to be taught their place; that was it.
And yet . . .
Per his training, he sent out scouts to survey the region. They all returned with reports of no Picts or bandits ahead. That did not entirely assure Konstantin, but as a loyal soldier of the realm he had no choice but to push forward.
The column reached the river without trouble. Konstantin wasted no time in sending the first elements over. Within a short period, the efficient work of the Aquilonians had more than half the soldiers over and standing ready. Even the storm-swollen waters made for little trouble, the stone-and-wood bridge designed to withstand the worst of the wilderness’s turbulent weather.
But as the last of the column wended its way across, disaster finally struck.
During all this time, the scouts had not seen any sign of activity, any sign of even one Pict. Yet, from seemingly the earth itself, the land filled with howling, tattooed warriors and savage brigands. They so easily caught the column in a vise that Konstantin had to assume that somehow they knew the Aquilonians’ methods as well as he did.
“Form ranks! Quickly!” he shouted. “Archers! At the ready!”
But even as his own, well-trained men moved into position, a flight of arrows dropped among them. Soldiers fell by the dozens, and lines splintered. Officers shouted more men up to the front, but the attackers were already nearly upon them.
The Aquilonians brought their shields together, forming a sturdy line of defense, and Konstantin began to relax. Then he noted that the hordes of Picts continued to come without end. Even without being able to count the enemy, the lead knight realized that the savages and their allies outnumbered the soldiers by several times.
We cannot possibly hold against so many! Konstantin knew . . . and yet, they would have to. They had no choice.
And then the Picts swarmed the lines.
Konstantin did not shirk from the battle, riding in and cutting down an overzealous warrior. Two more perished by his blade, but his effort seemed like nothing. All he could see were savages. They wore the symbols of at least a dozen different tribes, yet they fought as if one. It was far worse than even the battle near Anascaw.
It was all too well orchestrated. Konstantin could only assume that either Caltero or Nermesa or both had been tortured into relaying what information they knew about Aquilonian tactics. Someone among the Picts had learned quickly and well from that stolen knowledge. The enemy had been waiting in just the right place at just the right time and knew just what to do. It was as if their leader was as familiar with the Aquilonian military as any soldier in Scanaga.
And understanding that, Konstantin also realized that, barring a miracle from Mitra, the chief defenders of the realm’s western border were going to be slaughtered to a man.
Then there would be no one to protect Scanaga and the other settlements . . .
WITH EACH CRY, with each ring of steel, Nermesa’s pulse raced. Even with the charger making the best of the terrain, he feared that it would be much too late to turn the tide. Worse, Nermesa was not even certain that what he planned would have any viable effect. The Picts might be too caught up in their bloodlust even to notice him other than as an enemy needing to be slain.
Nevertheless, he urged the charger on. Hoping to make the run easier, Nermesa had stripped the animal of everything but the saddle. Now, only a single cloth sack fully filled bounced against the horse’s flank. As for the Aquilonian himself, he had been forced to forgo the brigand’s breastplate, which was too cumbersome for his form. Nermesa fully expected to die, but if it meant life for others, he was prepared. He had already asked Mitra to watch over his parents and had even said a prayer for the king. If the Picts won here, they would continue east as far as they could push.
Lightning flashed, briefly turning the landscape bright and surreal. Thunder roared, but it could no longer obscure the sounds of battle.
And as Nermesa pulled up at the top of a ridge, he came upon the struggle.
As he had feared, the soldiers were trapped. They could not retreat properly back across the river without opening themselves up to an even easier slaughter. Pict
s guided by Khati’s bandits fell upon them from the remaining directions. The Aquilonians were putting up a good defense, but there were so many Picts.
Nermesa momentarily sat there, daunted. He saw now how foolhardy his desperate plan was. He would only get himself quickly slain by the first warrior to turn his way. There was still hope for him if he simply turned and fled for his life.
But the son of Bolontes could not do that. He remembered again those men who had perished under his command, especially Quentus. A grim cast to his expression, Nermesa studied the Picts, seeking the place where he might best be seen by many. All hinged on the tattooed warriors noticing him quickly.
He was certainly a sight. His shirt hung in ribbons, his hair flew wildly, and his body was etched with long red cuts. His skin was otherwise so pale from his trials that he looked as if he had perished, not Gullah.
Thinking of the savage god, Nermesa no longer hesitated. Drawing his sword, he turned to the pouch. With one swift cut, he opened up a gap large enough to remove the contents. Gripping them tight in his other hand, he seized the reins with the one holding the sword and took a deep breath.
“Yaaaa!” With that scream, Nermesa drove the black charger down among the combatants.
THE PICT WARRIORS eagerly poured forward, each hoping to gain a kill before there was no one left to fight. They pushed at the defenders, axes, blades, and spears seeking Aquilonian blood. Victory was a certainty; after all, Gullah watched over them.
Then those on the farthest flank heard a wild cry above their own and, in the next moment, a deathly white, demonic figure astride a horse of shadow barreled into them.
His eyes flared with the lightning, and his hair seemed to have life of its own. The latter spread wide, giving the astounding figure a very leonine appearance. He roared like the animal, daring any to meet him. To the Picts, his body—far more pale than that of any of the invaders—further marked him as a ghost, a spirit.
The sword he wielded cut through startled warriors as if they were but water. A neck flowed, a stomach spilled open. Such was the fury of this unnatural warrior that only token resistance was given by those caught in his path.
Eager for blood, the demon carried the reins of his shadowy steed between his clenched teeth. This not only enabled him to put his blade to good use, but allowed his other hand to hold high a large object.
And when the first Picts saw what he held forth, their hearts shriveled, and their courage waned. It was not possible. Such a thing could not be.
The leonine demon triumphantly held aloft the gore-soaked head of Gullah.
There could be no greater sign of disaster. They had all either heard of or witnessed their god’s power. Sacrificial victims had been torn apart, and they who had Gullah’s favor had spoken of the glory that the tribes would garner. Yet now this lion spirit revealed that even Gullah was no match for him. Worse, his striking down of the People’s warriors meant that he favored the invaders, not them.
Against such a vision, no Pict would fight. First one, then another turned from the battle. Those farther on who noticed this action looked for the cause and saw the same terrifying image. Outlined in lightning, the lion warrior swung Gullah’s head left and right, defying any to argue with his supremacy.
The few fleeing became many. The horde faltered as even those too distant to see the ghostly rider came to understand that some catastrophe had befallen the tribes. They joined their retreating companions, adding to the masses escaping the struggle.
Those who had been facing certain death took immediate advantage. The Aquilonians finally organized their lines, pushing back those Picts still remaining. Such a shift further disheartened the remaining warriors, and the last elements holding against the soldiers began to crumble.
But the battle was not yet over . . .
AND FOR NERMESA, it had barely begun. He cut a swathe through the Picts, unmindful of his own fate. All that mattered was to keep them unsettled so that the other soldiers could make good their escape. That they might stand and fight now that the tribes were on the run did not even occur to the knight. Nermesa fully expected to die and die soon, and all he cared about was to send as many Picts to hell before him.
With manic strength, he drove through their warriors. The few spears raised against him snapped under the weight of his swing. The charger, guided by his desires, trampled more than one screaming foe. The leering head of Gullah served as well as any weapon, the staring eyes and fanged mouth turning strong fighters into quivering children.
Several bandits sought to stem the tide. With curses and the flats of blades, they forced Picts back to the fray.
Scowling, Nermesa confronted the group. The Picts eyed him anxiously but at first held their ground. The four brigands in charge of them shouted angrily, trying to get them to attack the lone rider en masse.
Hardly caring anymore if they did, Nermesa raised the god’s head high. Then, with a cry, he threw it at the Picts.
It was enough. They turned and ran from the macabre missile as if Gullah himself were about to slay them. Khati’s brigands tried to order them back again, but only succeeded in turning the warriors’ frenzy against them. Axes and spears quickly slew the four, but, for once, the Picts did not take the heads. They continued on, fleeing from the spot where Gullah’s head had landed.
To the east, the clash of arms grew louder. The Aquilonians were on the move, swarming over those Picts still hesitating. A few warriors paused to fire bows, but their hearts were not in the effort, and most of the shafts landed without causing harm. Knights with lances rode down an entire row of Picts, tossing some of the impaled fighters up into the air like rag dolls.
The banner of King Conan flew triumphantly over the drama. Nermesa saw Konstantin among the foremost riders. The bearded, red-haired noble swept past a pair of bandits, his arcing sword taking both in one masterful stroke. Khatak’s former followers were the only real resistance left, and their numbers were quickly falling.
Pausing, Konstantin happened to glance Nermesa’s way. The other knight gaped in recognition.
Nermesa raised his sword to the other Aquilonian. Konstantin returned the greeting, then quickly urged his mount toward his comrade.
“Nermesa! You live! Praise Mitra—” The armored figure looked aghast as he surveyed Bolontes’ son. “At least, I think you live! What has become of you?”
“Never mind! Just keep pressing the Picts! They can’t be allowed to regroup!”
“Aye, we’ll do that all right, now that the battle’s turned for us . . .” Konstantin smiled grimly. “And the reason for it must concern you, friend! I’d almost say that your appearance alone could be enough! How did you do it?”
Memory of the struggle flashed through Nermesa’s mind. “I showed them that their god had feet of clay.” Konstantin looked puzzled, but Nermesa could delay no longer. Turning his mount, he once more ordered, “Keep pressing them!”
“But, Nermesa! You should stay with us—”
“I can’t!” And with that, the heir to Klandes abandoned the other knight.
The Picts had been routed, and the bandits would soon be wiped out, but to Nermesa, the threat continued for as long as Khati was free. He did not underestimate her, even now. She would slip once more into hiding, then somehow seek revenge. For all those who had died because of her and Khatak’s ambitions—settlers, soldiers, General Boronius, and even misguided Caltero—Khati could not be allowed to escape into the wilderness.
But where was she? He scanned the area and saw no sign of her. Certainly, Khatak’s sister was hard to miss. Had Khati already fled? If so, she could be anywhere.
A manic-eyed Pict attempted to spear his horse. Nermesa shattered the spear, then ran his blade through his tattooed adversary’s throat. Such victories now meant nothing, not if he had failed to seize the mind behind the evil.
Then a frantic rider crossed his gaze. A brigand seeking to flee the debacle. Nermesa stiffened. If anyone knew where Khati wo
uld go, it would be one of her own.
Urging the charger to its fastest pace, he pursued the lone bandit. The latter paid him no mind, concerned only with getting as far from the Aquilonians as possible. Still, Nermesa felt certain that eventually the cutthroat would return to his mistress.
Picts continued to get in his path, but most had no lingering interest in fighting. The few who did quickly learned that it was fatal even to slow Nermesa for a moment. He brooked no interference with his pursuit. By the time the Aquilonian neared the deeper forest again, he had left in his wake a trail of wounded and dying warriors.
Twice Nermesa lost sight of the brigand, but both times he managed to catch up. Thunder and lightning continued to war above, but the sounds of the battle he had left dwindled until finally nothing could be heard.
Khati was close; Nermesa was certain of that. He clenched the hilt of his sword tight in anticipation. She would not be alone, that much he understood. Even after the calamity behind them, there would still be those who would fight to the death for her. She was a seductress, a witch of men’s hearts.
Again, the bandit he pursued vanished, this time around a bend. The land here was hillier, but no less forested. Nermesa leaned into the charger’s mane, seeking to cut the wind resistance as much as possible. Anything to keep on the hunt.
As he came around the turn, a brutish figure leapt from the trees above.
The Aquilonian’s first reaction was to think that Gullah had come back from the dead. However, the savage face that pressed against his own proved to be, despite its ugliness, only human. The brigand tried to force him from the saddle, but only succeeded in slowing Nermesa’s mount.
Thick fingers sought the knight’s throat while others brought up a stained knife. Nermesa struck his adversary hard with the fist holding the sword’s hilt. The added mass of the hilt was enough to crack the villain’s nose. Blood splattered the eyes of Nermesa’s foe.
As the brigand attempted to blink his gaze clear, the Aquilonian again smashed his face with the one fist. The snarling fighter bent back, and Nermesa used the opportunity to throw him from the charger.
The God in the Moon Page 27
