The God in the Moon

by Richard A. Knaak

  And in that light, his father’s distraught visage re-formed.

  “Nermesa!” The fear gave way to relief.

  “F-Father?”

  “Mitra be praised!” The graying patrician looked beyond his son. “Bring some water! Quickly!”

  There was the sound of hasty footsteps, then Konstantin—of all people—appeared, a mug in one hand. The un-helmed knight grinned down at Nermesa as he handed the mug to Bolontes. “Looks as if I chose the perfect moment to check on you!”

  Details of Nermesa’s surroundings became noticeable. Armor and other gear hung on a wall opposite him. A brass oil lamp dangled from the ceiling, illuminating the scene. Nermesa’s father wore brown travel garments, not the rich robes in which the son always pictured him.

  To the elder Klandes, he asked, “Are we—are we still in the Westermarck?”

  “Yes, son. In Scanaga.”

  Scanaga . . . a journey of at least a couple of days from where Nermesa last recalled being. More to the point, Scanaga was much, much farther from Tarantia, where last he had seen his father.

  His father had journeyed all the way from the capital?

  “How long have I—?”

  “Some weeks,” was all Bolontes would say in response. He tipped the mug by Nermesa’s lips, helping his son to drink.

  Konstantin filled in some of what was missing. “You were very ill. Wasted. Fever, chills, and more. Small wonder in the condition that you were found in. You had wounds all over your body, you’d clearly not slept or even rested for more than a day, and your clothes were shreds, giving you little protection against the elements.”

  “I was warned of all that when the messenger arrived from the palace,” Bolontes interjected, his usually steady tone cracking. “But I insisted on the excursion out here nevertheless.” He sighed, momentarily closing his eyes. “Even if it might be merely to bring back my son’s body.”

  Nermesa managed to reach a hand to his father. The elder Klandes gratefully seized it.

  Taking the mug, Konstantin added, “But by the grace of Mitra, he’ll ride proudly alongside you, my lord Bolontes.”

  This caused Nermesa to stir. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re summoned back from the west! General Pallantides has demanded your return to Tarantia.”

  “But why?”

  The other knight’s brow arched. “Why? Because the king wants to see you again.”

  The king . . . Conan wished to see him again. For what he had done? Nermesa could not imagine why! It had been by sheer luck that he had survived and only by chance that he had managed to help the column.”

  Bolontes squeezed Nermesa’s hand. “He will see the king soon enough, but first he must recover more . . . and his mother must be told that he has survived. Word must be sent to her immediately.”

  Bowing his head, Konstanin replied, “Of course, my lord. Nothing is of more importance.”

  Nermesa might have argued, but exhaustion overcame him again. This time, however, it was a more comfortable, more familiar exhaustion.

  “Sleep, my son,” Bolontes said, seeing Nermesa struggling to stay awake. “I will watch over you. Sleep, then we shall see about feeding you. You’ve survived on little more than broth all this time. You’re barely even bones . . .”

  Nermesa did not argue with him . . . for he had already drifted off.

  IT WAS TWO more days before Nermesa recalled being awake again. He woke with a horrific hole in his stomach, one that demanded to be filled before giving him any relief. Yet, despite his desire to consume whatever they could leave within his reach, Nermesa’s father monitored his meals, allowing only so much at any one time.

  “You will kill yourself if you eat until you want no more. I’ve seen it happen to soldiers held prisoner for days, then rescued. You must suffer a little more, my son, but not much.”

  And after another two days, Bolontes’ words proved true. The hunger subsided. Nermesa could now think clearly. From there, he truly began his recovery, sitting up the next day and taking weak steps after three more.

  Konstantin, interim commander of the Westermarck’s military forces, visited him each morning and evening. Nermesa related to the redheaded knight all that he could recall—Khati, Khatak, Gullah, and Caltero included—and from Konstantin, Nermesa learned much about what had happened since. All reports were that the Picts had returned to their individual tribes and were now once more wary rivals of one another. More important, they had themselves begun to hunt down Khati’s band to the point that more than one bandit had turned himself in, preferring Aquilonian justice to the tortures of the natives.

  “The tribes blame them for the disgrace,” Konstantin explained. “The Picts would take it out on Khatak and his sister if they weren’t already dead. In fact, there’s been more than one totem found bearing curse marks against their souls.”

  Nermesa found he could raise no sympathy for Khati. He had never met anyone so cruel and uncaring.

  “So, there’s no threat at all of the tribes gathering again?”

  The other knight chuckled. “Still concerned. No, Nermesa. The Picts are very subdued, for the time being. There’re tales spreading, too, of the fierce lion spirit who devoured He Who Lives in the Moon, then, still hungry, came among the warriors of the People and ate the souls of any who stood before him.”

  “That would be you, my son,” Bolontes added.

  “But—” Gazing into their faces, Nermesa saw that they made no jest. The Picts truly thought him some powerful spirit! How quickly they would have abandoned such notions could they see him now.

  As if reading that thought, Konstantin continued, “The Picts know nothing of what is happening with you. I’ve had Scanaga cleared of them . . . especially the females who’ve frequented our section. While I’m here, that mistake won’t happen again. I promise.”

  They let him rest after that, even the conversation sapping Nermesa of much of his remaining strength. The next day, the territorial judge came to see him and, not at all to Nermesa’s surprise, knew Bolontes from years back. The pair had evidently served together when little older than the son was now.

  “I saw his eyes that first time and knew he was you again,” Flavian declared to the elder Klandes. “The blood of Bolontes of House Klandes. Just like his father!”

  But Bolontes surprised Nermesa by shaking his head, and replying, “No . . . I could never have done what he did. Never.”

  A week more passed, then Bolontes declared his son and heir fit to travel by wagon. Despite Nermesa’s protest, Konstantin provided an honor guard. As the wagon left the military section of Scanaga, people of the town lined up all the way to the outer gates to cheer him on. Nermesa wanted nothing of the fanfare, but such a decision appeared entirely out of his hands.

  The wagon and its honor guard exited the eastern gates of Scanaga and, some scant hours later, the last of the territorial settlements. From there on, Nermesa slept through most of the journey and, before he knew it, the plains of Tarantia beckoned ahead.

  And, as best, he could, the son of Bolontes prepared himself for once more entering the presence of King Conan.

  IF ANY OTHER monarch, Conan would have insisted that Nermesa be brought directly to his court for a grand ceremony no matter what the “hero’s” condition. But the Cimmerian was not like any other ruler. He had fought in many a war, suffered many a harsh wound, and so understood the realities. There was no grand assembly of the citizens at the gates of the capital, no trumpets announcing Nermesa’s arrival. The wagon entered without notice, receiving only a respectful acknowledgment from those in command at Tarantia’s entryway.

  Conan demanded of Nermesa a week more recovery before coming to the palace, and Callista seconded his decree. She fussed over her son as if he were a newborn infant, doing tasks that one of her status would have normally left for servants. Even Bolontes could not countermand his wife in this instance.

  There were no visitors, but one missive was sent
to the House of Klandes that was of direct interest to Nermesa. It was an official document whose seal he did not recognize but knew that he should have.

  The contents within were written plainly and to the point.

  House Sibelio announces the binding of its Lord and Baron, Antonus, to Lady Orena of House Lenaro on the day of the Ram in the month of—

  Nermesa crumpled the message, throwing it as far as he could across the chamber. He had chosen to end the arranged betrothal with Orena and had no regrets. If she thought that this abrupt marriage to the Baron Sibelio would somehow shame him, she was wrong. Nermesa intended to have nothing more to do with either her or her husband-to-be.

  He only hoped that things would turn out that way.

  AND WHEN AT last came the day when he was to stand before the king again, Nermesa found his legs shaking from something other than weakness. Pallantides it was who arrived at the Klandes residence, Pallantides in resplendent armor and with an honor guard of fifty Black Dragons awaiting them outside. Nermesa’s neighbors already crowded the streets to see the spectacle, and as he and his parents—Callista in a stunning ivory gown and Bolontes in polished armor that fit him as well as it likely had as a youth—mounted, other inhabitants of Tarantia added to the growing throng, until the streets all the way to the palace were filled with cheering people.

  Pallantides rode beside Nermesa, saying wryly, “The king may be one for subdued events, but the citizens of Aquilonia should acknowledge their saviors now and then . . . even if I must have word spread myself.”

  Nermesa would have preferred King Conan’s way, but nodded his gratitude to the general nonetheless. He spent the rest of the trek waving to those on each side and hoping that at least in the palace there would not be such crowds.

  That wish was not to be granted, however, for here the king diverged from what Nermesa knew of him and what General Pallantides had verified. As Nermesa entered the court of Conan—ahead of him, horns blaring loudly to announce the entrance of the reluctant savior of the west—he discovered that each and every one of the highest-ranking members of the king’s council and the most influential citizens of Aquilonia stood waiting. At the calling of Nermesa’s name by a herald, they broke into clapping that echoed much too loudly in the young Klandes’ head. Face flushed, he marched along the thick golden carpet, Pallantides next to him. Nermesa’s parents took up a place of honor at the front, Bolontes not at all looking reluctant to be in the presence of the ruler he had once only called “outlander.”

  Nermesa had even expected to see Orena and her new betrothed among those in the audience, but perhaps this particular honoring of him had been too much for her to suffer through. He gave thanks to Mitra for the blessing, then looked to the throne.

  King Conan met his gaze, the Cimmerian’s steely eyes taking the measure of the man before him. The muscular figure raised a hand for silence.

  The clapping ceased.

  “Nermesa of House Klandes,” rumbled Conan, leaning forward in his throne. “I hear you’ve blooded your weapon well.”

  “Yes, your majesty,” the knight returned, going down on one knee.

  Conan, however, would not let him remain there. He gestured for Nermesa to stand again, then, he himself rose. Beside him, the queen smiled proudly at Nermesa. She turned to one of her ladies-in-waiting, a young and beautiful woman of the court. A woman with lush auburn hair.

  A woman, Nermesa realized, who was Telaria.

  He managed to hide his surprise at how much she had again changed. In truth, she now had the beauty of her elder sister but without the chill behind it. Telaria saw him glance her way and blushed.

  “Nermesa of House Klandes,” the king repeated louder, possibly to pull the noble’s attention back from Orena’s sister. “Aquilonia owes you much! First, the capture and slaying of Khatak the Brigand and now, the crushing of the Picts!” Conan grinned. “Ah! To have wielded a blade with you that day . . .”

  “I did only what I had to, your majesty,” Nermesa dared protest.

  “But you lived . . . and you won.” Conan faced the audience. “I hereby declare seven days of celebration for this man! Let all of Tarantia, all of Aquilonia, honor his name!”

  The assembled nobility clapped and cheered. The king nodded in satisfaction as he looked over the throng.

  Then, after the hall had echoed for several moments with accolades for the reluctant Nermesa, Conan again signaled for silence.

  To the knight he asked, “Nermesa of Klandes, of all boons I may grant you, what reward now would you have? Medals, I think, are not you. A good blade have I given you already, and you seem so well matched that another would seem wrong. What will this warrior before me ask of his king? Tell it to me, and if it is in my power to grant it, then I will, by Crom!”

  Nermesa had indeed expected some medal, nothing more, and so Conan’s broad offer overwhelmed him. Yet, one thing immediately leapt to mind.

  On his own initiative, the son of Bolontes went back down on one knee. He gazed up at King Conan—whose head was cocked in slight bemusement—and said, “Your majesty, if there’s one wish you can grant me, it is this: I would serve you, serve Aquilonia as I have done so far! I would pledge my sword and my life to this task . . . and if at all possible, I would hope to do it as one of the Black Dragons.”

  Murmuring coursed through the audience. Nermesa took a quick glance in the direction of his parents. Callista frowned, but Bolontes nodded approval of his son’s choice.

  As for King Conan, he suddenly laughed heartily, then looked to where the commander of the Black Dragons stood. “What say you, Pallantides? Can you use a man with a fair sword arm?”

  The general nodded once. “For him, my lord, I think that there can be found a place.”

  “Then so it shall be!” Conan stepped down to where Nermesa knelt. He placed a strong, sturdy hand on the noble’s shoulder. “Nermesa of House Klandes! I grant you your boon! From this day on, you are one my elite! From this day on, you are a Black Dragon!”

  Nermesa’s honor guard, all members of that august group, shouted as one, “Hail, Nermesa! Hail!”

  Their cry was taken up by the assembly. “Hail, Nermesa! Hail, Nermesa!”

  At a signal from Pallantides, the horns sounded. King Conan bid Nermesa to rise and, once the latter had, seized his hand in a powerful shake. Nermesa gasped slightly at the strength in his monarch’s grip.

  Behind Conan, the queen rose to honor him, Telaria at her side. Nermesa acknowledged Zenobia with tremendous respect, but his eyes quickly shifted to Telaria. The pleasure he read in her expression made him flush.

  “’Tis an honor indeed!” bellowed the king, mistaking the reason for the reddening. “And an honor for me to accept the oath of a warrior such as you!” He turned Nermesa to face the rest. “Let us begin the celebration! All here will dine with my queen and I, Sir Nermesa to be seated in a place next to me! Pallantides! When our feasting is done, see to proper garb for my new champion! He is now a part of our court!”

  “It shall be done, my lord!” the general said with a smile to both the king and Nermesa.

  The cheering rose. King Conan stepped back to allow others to wish Nermesa congratulations. Men whom the young Klandes had seen only from afar and with awe treated him as if he was not only one of their own, but in some ways something more. He suspected it was a temporary situation, but it still nonetheless startled him.

  Yet even through all the revelry, Nermesa did not lose sight of what he had asked of the king. He knew full well what the service of the Black Dragons entailed. Death was the most common fate of the king’s elite, for there were ever those who sought either the downfall of the foreign-born king or even of Aquilonia itself. The evil of Khatak and Khati would one day prove slight compared to that of some other insidious plotter. When that happened, it might be that Nermesa would again be called upon to risk himself . . . and come that next time, Mitra might choose to take him up to the halls of the dead.

&nbs
p; “Congratulations, Nermesa,” murmured a familiar voice.

  He looked to his side to see Telaria. Nermesa started to thank her, but suddenly could not find his voice. Was this the same young girl he had once considered only Orena’s shadow? Certainly, up close, she was no longer a girl, but a true lady . . .

  His continuing silence made her blush. Telaria suddenly leaned up and, before Nermesa knew what she was doing, kissed him on the cheek. “I’m proud of you . . .”

  She vanished into the crowd before he could recover. The man who had battled Picts and cutthroats stared after Telaria like a lost schoolboy.

  Someone slapped him hard on the back, jarring him back to the moment. A baron, whom he recognized only as a longtime competitor of his father, grinned at him as if Nermesa was his own son. “Congratulates, Klandes! We must talk soon! Perhaps you can put in a good word with the king about this proposal I have . . .”

  But before the man could add more, another noble took Nermesa’s attention, shaking his hand as he would an old friend’s and also mouthing something about future business with House Klandes. One after another, the wealth and power of Tarantia swarmed Nermesa with suggestions of favors needed and potential profits. Everyone acted as if Conan had named Nermesa his heir.

  They knew that he had the strong favor of the king, the young Klandes belatedly realized. Each hoped to benefit somehow from that, no matter what their past relationship—or lack thereof—with Nermesa and his family.

  It occurred to him then that he had not considered this aspect when making his request to the king. War, he now at least understood something of. Despite its brutality, there was still a basic honesty to it. That was not the case with the politics of the kingdom, though. Nermesa even recalled how King Conan had acted when they had previously met. The Cimmerian had wished that he could come with the young noble and fight the battles out west. Better that than the intrigues of the royal court, surely a battle every day for the king.