But no sooner had he done so than a second cutthroat rode up to duel with him. Their swords clashed twice before Nermesa cut the man on the shoulder. However, before he could finish the bandit, another attacked from the opposite side.
Nermesa’s strength and skill were tested. He had to bring the sword back and forth to meet each attack. The two ambushers struck as quickly as they could, calculating that one of them would soon get past his guard.
As he fought them, Nermesa heard mocking laughter from somewhere higher up in the terrain. Mocking feminine laughter.
That his struggles had now become amusement for Khati infuriated Nermesa. Adrenaline flowed through him. Nermesa was well aware that, should he survive this, he would pay a terrible price for his abuse of his body, but he had no choice.
Taken aback by his sudden resurgence, his two opponents grew careless. Their attacks became wild, untimed chops at the Aquilonian.
Against such unskilled assaults, Nermesa easily prevailed. He caught the rider to his left under the arm, opening up a stream of red. As the brigand grasped at his wound, the knight continued his swing to the second fighter. Deflecting the other’s sword, Nermesa drove his own blade into the attacker’s stomach.
He immediately whirled back to the remaining bandit, easily finishing off the wounded rider. Even as the second man fell, Nermesa glanced up and around . . . but of Khati, there was no sign.
Cursing, he moved on. From the sound of her laughter, she had been standing atop one of the two nearest hills. Praying to Mitra that he had chosen correctly, Nermesa headed up the one on his right.
The forest grew thicker still as he ascended. Somewhere, he knew, Khati would have some nefarious trap in mind. Nermesa was now aware that he had not entirely made his choice to trail after her on his own. Khati had read him well and, as she had retreated, had planned for just this chase. The Pict could have simply vanished into the wilderness, but, like her brother, she had a need for vengeance that overrode all else. She had probably seen Nermesa pursuing the lone brigand and arranged accordingly.
And if she succeeded in slaying him, Khati would still likely escape. Nermesa doubted that any of Konstantin’s soldiers had followed this far. There was still too much havoc going on back at the site of the battle for them to be concerned with a few escaping warriors and thieves.
Which left Nermesa all on his own.
The terrain grew more uneven. Forced to pick its path, the charger slowed almost to a crawl. Nermesa’s gaze darted back and forth, seeking his quarry.
Khati’s laugh came from his left. Nermesa quickly turned his head—
The Pict stepped out from behind a pair of trees and threw a handful of powder in his face. The Aquilonian had no choice but to inhale much of it.
He swung at the retreating figure. Khati laughed again, and, as she stepped back, she literally melted into the landscape.
Nermesa shook his head, unwilling to believe what he had just witnessed. He steered the horse toward where she had stood, trying to make sense.
His eyes burned. Nermesa tried to wipe them clean, but that only made the sensation worse. More worrisome, the forest around him had begun to take on a murky, unnatural appearance. The trees seemed to be stretching their branches toward him as if seeking to grab the knight. The ground began to dip back and forth as if a great hand tipped it, and a curious yellow mist suddenly pervaded everywhere.
“You slew Khatak . . .” came Khati’s voice. “Can you slay him again? And again? And again?”
And suddenly the nearest trees began to change form. They grew human limbs and their roots combined into strong legs. Their knotted skins transformed into faces—no one face. One sinister and familiar face.
That of Khatak.
A full half dozen Khataks converged on Nermesa. He swung at one after another, but his blade always seemed to just miss the mark. The Khataks gave him that awful, crooked smile that still haunted the Aquilonian’s nightmares, then attacked. Swords came from everywhere. Nermesa met one blade after another, but although he managed to deflect some, others cut him. Each strike, though mostly shallow, stung as if it had gone straight to his heart.
“My brother will have your blood . . .” Khati continued to mock from somewhere in the woods. “and through him, I will, too.”
Another Khatak lunged. Nermesa parried, then thrust. This time, his blade sank deep. The Khatak cried out, then collapsed.
As he did, he transformed into another bandit.
The transformation both startled and pleased Nermesa. Emboldened, the Aquilonian jabbed at another, but the tip of his sword instead slid off the face without leaving so much as a scratch.
Nermesa fought to focus. He realized that the powder was having this effect on him. It was one of Khati’s sinister concoctions. This was not magic, but mesmerism. The powder made him susceptible to her words. Some of these attackers were real . . . but they were only her minions, not the dread Khatak come back to life.
Despite that certainty, Nermesa could ignore none of the blades that bit at him. Any one of them might be real.
He had no choice. Kicking hard, Nermesa urged the charger on. If he could not tell which Khatak was a true threat, then he would soon die. He had to push beyond them in the hopes that a few moments’ respite would enable him to clear his head.
The animal started forward—and two of the Khataks drove their blades through its neck. The wounded steed shrieked and turned toward the Khatak on the right. Unfortunately, the stricken animal made it only a few steps before tumbling. Nermesa leapt at the last moment, ending a few precious yards from his ghostly foes.
Through the fog both within and without, he saw the blood drenching the dying animal. There was a vicious wound on the left side . . . but none on the right.
Nermesa looked up, focusing on the Khatak who had caused the wound. With an angry growl, he ran at the figure, shoving his sword through as hard as he could.
This Khatak did not avoid injury as the previous had. Instead, he gasped, then, with a shiver, dropped his own weapon. As the figure slumped, his features contorted, becoming, like the first to perish, those of a slack-faced half-breed not at all resembling the dread villain.
Shoving his foe away, Nermesa whirled. Four more Khataks remained, but one he immediately marked as illusion, it being the attacker whose weapon had made no wound in the horse’s neck. He started toward the rest, trying to estimate which was the product of Khati’s poisonous powder and which was not.
One of the Khataks moved more hesitantly than the others. Acting on a hunch, Nermesa assailed that one, but kept his eyes on the others. His target met his blows with increasing trepidation, then, suddenly, bolted.
Nermesa had no time to follow through, for the remaining Khataks were then upon him. They moved with utmost precision. Too much, in fact. As the Aquilonian struggled to keep the blades from his hide, he saw that, like the known illusion, one to his left moved only when the others did and even mirrored their swings.
Hoping that he guessed true, Nermesa ignored all but the last two. He thrust again and again at them, ignoring all else.
One of the latter left himself open. The knight plunged his weapon through the Khatak’s stomach. As his victim doubled over, one of those he had ignored imitated the agony.
Eyes narrowed, Nermesa growled to the Khatak in front of him, “And you’re the last . . .”
In response, the final ghost dropped his sword and fled. Nermesa turned to face the next Khatak . . . and found that the figure had disappeared without a trace. Illusion caused by the powder and Khati’s suggestion, just as the knight had suspected.
His body screamed for rest, but Nermesa dared not falter. Instead, he raised his sword high, and shouted, “Your brother’s dead again! Your tricks have failed!”
“You will still die, easterner!” Khati’s voice all but spat. It sounded so very near, yet Nermesa could still not find her in the murky forest. “Your bones will I crush and my poison will burn your blood
. . . my bite will tear your flesh . . .”
Nermesa’s head pounded. He knew that the effect of Khati’s powder had been amplified by his own weakness. The weary Aquilonian inhaled deeply as he stumbled around in a circle. If he could clear the powder from his body with fresh air, Khati’s mesmerism would surely lose its hold over him.
But still the landscape weaved—nearly sending him to his knees—and the shadows now seemed to gather together in one great mass. That mass began to move, too, undulating in a monstrous fashion.
Nermesa stepped back as a black form abruptly rose before him, a form in no manner human.
“Crush your bonesss, poissson your blood, and tear your flesh . . .” Khati repeated, her words now coming from the huge shadow. A sibilance touched her voice, one that made him think of another creature despite his best attempts not to do so.
And as he thought of that fiendish creature, the shadow became it.
The serpent rose high, looming several feet over Nermesa. Black as the shadows it was, and when the mouth opened, the fangs and the long, forked tongue that darted out were equally dark. Only the eyes held any other sense of color, but they were perhaps the most unsettling feature of this demonic horror.
They were the eyes he recalled from Scanaga, from the fort. And from his bed.
They were the eyes of Khati.
“Come, lion warrior . . .” cooed the giant shadow serpent. “You once desssired nothing more than my sssweet embrace ...”
“No more!” snarled Nermesa, lunging at the thick form. Much to his dismay, though, his blade passed through the coiled body. “Rather would I bed the viper I once found in it!”
“A viper your cousssin brought for me . . .” The snake laughed. “I will show your crushed body to the tribes! They will sssee that I am stronger than he who has ssslain Gullah!”
“After this day, they won’t ever believe in you, Khati . . .” Again, Nermesa lunged, but once more his blade had no effect.
It’s all illusion! he insisted to himself. The powder is at fault! This is no more real than the Khataks or that Gullah was a god!
“They will listen when they see your head . . .”
The long, sinewy tail shot up like a whip, snapping around Nermesa’s throat with astounding swiftness. The Aquilonian seized it with his free hand, but could not remove the snake’s coiled form.
The coil tightened. Nermesa’s breathing was cut off. He began to choke.
“Let me caress you, hold you tight . . .” Khati murmured. The eyes bored into his own. “Let me send you to my brother . . .”
The pressure on the knight’s throat doubled. Nermesa was seconds away from suffocating.
He slashed with his sword, but found nothing in terms of resistance. Yet the pressure on his throat was all too real. Khati was indeed strangling him just as readily as any serpent. But how could she?
Nermesa began to black out. He dropped to one knee. Somehow, Khati had him, but if she did not stand before him—
Fumbling with his sword, Nermesa turned it toward his own body. It grew difficult to think. He had but seconds . . .
With what remained of his might, the Aquilonian thrust the blade behind him, aiming upward.
A shriek deafened his ears. The tightness around his throat grew harsher . . . then abruptly ceased. Nermesa, starving for air, released his sword and tore at his own neck, removing the last vestiges of constriction.
The flailing tail of the shadow serpent wriggled in his palms. Refusing to accept such a vision, Nermesa bit down on his tongue until he drew blood. The pain did what nothing before had. The tail stilled, then shriveled, changing shape at the same time.
In its place, a tanned leather cord just perfect for such a treacherous task materialized.
A coughing fit overcame him. He rolled forward, fearful that Khati would still manage to plunge a dagger in his back while he was defenseless. Yet nothing happened, and gradually Nermesa found himself able to breathe normally again. As the Aquilonian looked up, he saw, too, that the mist and shadows had faded and that the ground no longer swayed.
Then, Nermesa remembered Khati.
He spun around, still certain of disaster . . . and met again the eyes of Khatak’s sister.
But, like those of Gullah, they were eyes that no longer saw.
Khati stood staring, her back against an oak. Her fingers were still curled tight, as if she yet hoped to strangle Nermesa. The Pict wore the garments he had last seen her in, the garb of the warrior queen Khati had dreamed herself to be.
She would have seemed such to Nermesa even now, if not for one other adornment but recently added . . . his sword, buried at an upward angle just below her rib cage. The force of the Aquilonian’s last hope had also driven the blade well into the tree trunk, which was why in death Khati could not fall.
Nermesa seized hold of the sword and unceremoniously tugged it free of both obstructions. Khati did not tumble forward, but rather simply slumped down to a kneeling position, her back still against the trunk. Her expression seemed one of hatred and defiance, as if she would give neither Nermesa nor death the pleasure of seeing her lying on the ground like a slaughtered rabbit.
Nermesa did not care. At the moment, nothing mattered. He had stopped the killing, had avenged those who had perished because of her and Khatak. All he wanted to do now was to find some peace.
Sword dragging, the son of Bolontes staggered from the area. He looked in vain for one of the brigands’ mounts, but could not find any. With no other choice, Nermesa simply started walking. He hoped that he still had presence enough of mind to remember which direction would lead him back to the battleground and prayed to Mitra that the way would be clear of wandering Pict warriors. Nermesa doubted that he could have fought so much as a squirrel now. It was hard enough to walk, much less fight.
Yet, walk he did, trudging through the forest. With the last sounds of battle having long faded away, all that was left was an eerie silence. Nermesa stared straight ahead, focused only on finding the other Aquilonians.
As he walked, Quentus’s voice again urged him on. Not much farther . . . not much farther . . .
Even knowing that it was his own mind using his friend’s shade, Nermesa drew comfort from the memory. He straightened, not wanting to disappoint his friend.
Almost there, Nermesa . . . the voice constantly repeated. Almost there, Nermesa . . .
Nermesa . . . Nermesa . . .
“Nermesa!”
The knight shook his head, aware that something was different. It was no longer Quentus’s voice.
“Nermesa!”
He stopped. Blinking, Nermesa looked up, discovering suddenly that he was surrounded by several riders. Immediately, Bolontes’ son raised his sword to defend himself.
One of the figures leaned toward him. There was a flash of red hair. “Nermesa! ’Tis Konstantin!”
Konstantin . . . The exhausted knight’s brow furrowed. Konstantin . . .
“Konstantin . . .” Nermesa muttered. “You?”
The bearded features of the other Aquilonian finally coalesced into an expression of grave concern. “Aye! We’ve ridden for an hour in search of you and now find you almost back at the river!”
“The river?” Vaguely, a rumbling sound pierced the fog of Nermesa’s mind. The river. The river was east, near the battle.
“Praise Mitra, you’re alive!”
“Alive.” Somewhere deep in his thoughts, Nermesa heard Quentus’s voice repeat the word. Alive . . . Nermesa . . . alive . . .
The other knight started to dismount. “Come! You’d better ride my horse until we can find you another.”
Nermesa attempted to put away his sword, but for some reason could not find the sheath. “Is it—is it over? Did—did many die?”
“Some, but your startling arrival saved most and gave us the day! You’re a hero, Nermesa! A hero!”
But Nermesa cared nothing about being a hero. He was only glad to hear that most of the soldiers had surv
ived. The danger was over. The Picts had been routed and, without Khati, Khatak, or Gullah, they would not soon band together again.
“Over . . .” he whispered. Nermesa finally managed to locate the sheath. He slid the sword in, then smiled at the approaching Konstantin. “Praise Mitra . . .”
And, with that, he collapsed into the other knight’s arms.
21
THERE WERE MORE dreams that followed, dreams and nightmares. He embraced Khati, only to have her become a giant snake that suddenly constricted around his body. Caltero was there, insisting that the snake was his but giving no aid to his suffering cousin.
Nermesa somehow struggled free of the serpent’s crushing hold, only to find himself flying up toward the moon. The moon became Gullah’s face, then swelled into a gigantic version of the Pict god. He pursued Nermesa through the heavens and as he did, his face transformed into Khatak’s.
But the nightmares were more than overwhelmed by the other dreams. Khatak/Gullah faded away, and Nermesa discovered himself swimming in a public pool such as was found in Tarantia. The cool, clean water soothed his body, especially his worn muscles. There were other swimmers, their faces reminiscent of people he had known over the years. Most were slightly out of focus, but one feminine countenance caught his attention. For some reason, despite her features being more distinct, he could not identify her save that her hair was auburn.
Nermesa started to swim toward her, but then the scene shifted, and he was riding toward his parents. They held out their arms to him, but although he headed first for his mother, it was Bolontes who suddenly stood before him.
The elder Klandes opened his mouth. His words boomed like thunder, forcing Nermesa to clamp his hands over his ears. Bolontes appeared not to notice this, continuing to roar despite the fact that his son could not understand him.
But gradually, the words began to make some sense. “Son. Can you hear me? Nermesa . . . please . . .”
At that point, the dreams faded, yet Bolontes’ voice did not. Darkness enshrouded Nermesa, but it almost immediately gave way to a dim, welcoming light.
The God in the Moon Page 28
