The God in the Moon Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  KNOW THY ENEMY

  Nermesa charged the murdering brigand. But as he neared, a huge figure outlined by the flames dropped down from the trees between the noble and his adversary, a figure so massive that he easily stopped the knight’s horse in its tracks.

  Nermesa’s mount cried out as gigantic hands crushed its throat. The knight was tossed aside, landing hard. He looked up to see the giant approaching him. There was something not quite right about the way this monstrous brigand moved, but Nermesa could not worry about that. He desperately searched the ground for his sword, but could not find it.

  A harsh, barking laugh made him look to his left, where the bearded, wild-haired brigand watched in amusement. Nermesa stared at the face and the Pictish tattoos, recalled bits of accounts he had heard . . . and knew then that it was Khatak the Butcher who so reveled in his imminent demise . . .

  Millions of readers have enjoyed Robert E. Howard’s stories

  about Conan. Twelve thousand years ago, after the sinking of

  Atlantis, there was an age undreamed of when shining kingdoms

  lay spread across the world. This was an age of magic,

  wars and adventure, but above all this was an age of heroes!

  The Age of Conan series features the tales of other legendary

  heroes in Hyboria.

  Don’t miss these thrilling adventures

  set in the world of Conan!

  The Marauders Saga

  GHOST OF THE WALL

  WINDS OF THE WILD SEA

  DAWN OF THE ICE BEAR

  The Adventures of Anok,

  Heretic of Stygia

  SCION OF THE SERPENT

  HERETIC OF SET

  VENOM OF LUXUR

  The Legends of Kern

  BLOOD OF WOLVES

  CIMMERIAN RAGE

  SONGS OF VICTORY

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  THE GOD IN THE MOON

  An Ace Book / published by arrangement with Conan Properties International, LLC.

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Ace mass-market edition / August 2006

  Copyright © 2006 by Conan Properties International, LLC.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

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  eISBN : 978-1-440-67822-6

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  1

  “—AND LO, THE foul sorcerer, Xaltotun, who would have raised the ancient and monstrous land of Acheron up from the dead, was smote by magic more powerful than his! Shriveled, he became, once more, the mummified corpse raised by Aquilonia’s enemies! Smote by magic secured by the king, who had already escaped black Khitan assassins and Nemedian treachery!”

  The tall, balding orator in flowing white robes gazed imperiously at the crowd in the open amphitheater. Torches lined the upper walls of the round stadium, which seated some two thousand. The orator’s lidded gaze and proud standing added emphasis to his remarkable baritone voice, perfect for effect for this particular tale . . . or so Nermesa, son of Bolontes, scion of House Klandes, thought as he listened, almost mesmerized.

  One hand on the upper fold of his robe, the player continued, “And with Xaltotun no more, the betrayers quickly fell to the king and his men! Valerius, blood of the foul tyrant Namedides and usurper of the throne, slain with his followers by the sacrifice of those brave citizens who most had suffered torture during his short but terrible reign as king of our realm! For Valerius, a score of arrows to pierce his black heart and a sword to sever his head! Then fell Amalric, Baron of Tor, who found doom impaled in the heart on the lance of Pallantides, commander of Aquilonia’s host! Lastly, Tarascus, who rumor has it only gained Nemedia’s throne through the sorcerer’s dark arts! Brought to his knees by none other than the king himself and spared life only in exchange for restitution to the peoples of Aquilonia and the release of she who now sits beside great Conan on the throne, our beloved queen, fair Zenobia!”

  From the stone benches upon which they sat, the audience abruptly arose with several shouts of, “Hail, Conan, King of Aquilonia! Hail, Zenobia, Queen of Aquilonia!”

  When the crowd had quieted again, the speaker concluded, “And so peace was brought to the realm! Aquilonia grew strong again, and our tale, for now . . . is ended . . .”

  The listeners clapped. The robed figure bowed, then strode from the stage as if Conan himself. Musicians began a piece designed to prepare the audience for the next entertainment, a play concerning two young lovers from vying Houses.

  But while most of the audience looked forward to the next piece, the young, brown-haired aristocrat seemed almost oblivious.

  “Amazing . . .” muttered Nermesa, blue eyes round despite his having heard the story a dozen times before. He never ceased to enjoy hearing of the astounding events, even if they were only a little over four years old. At the time of their happening, he had been a youth still caught up in his learning, and so everything that had happened had taken on a larger-than-life meanin
g for him. Yet, now, even though he had just become an officer in Aquilonia’s military, those events still guided his dreams and his very existence.

  “Poor Valerius,” mocked the grating voice of his companion, a dark-haired, bearded man with a squat, crooked nose that compared even more unfavorably against Nermesa’s well-angled one. “After all these times here listening to him ending up full of bolts I can’t see him other than a red pin-cushion!”

  Nermesa chuckled slightly at his servant’s jest. Quentus might have been in the employ of House Klandes, but, having been assigned since a boy himself to the House’s heir, was more of a friend despite their differences in status. Of course, Quentus never completely forgot his place and always urged Nermesa to do the same, for the latter’s father considered rank and blood of the utmost importance in life. The son of Bolontes, however, generally ignored the servant’s advice when it came to that subject.

  “Are we staying for the play, this time, Master Nermesa?” But even as the ursine servant asked, the robed aristocrat stood. Quentus shook his head. “Of course not. Such a foolish question.”

  “I’ve got to prepare, Quentus. I received my orders.”

  “Eh?” Black eyes narrowed. “How’s it I’ve heard nothing?”

  Nermesa smiled again. “You’d have had to have been standing near the doors all day as I did. When the messenger came, I stopped him before he knocked and took them from him directly!”

  “Are you saying that this here’s something even your parents don’t know yet?”

  Now it was the noble’s eyes that narrowed. “No, and that was the way I intended it. I wanted to wait until the last minute . . . when they couldn’t put up a fuss.”

  Quentus grunted, his life as a servant having given him a much more basic perspective. “Oh, you think they’ll not?”

  His master grimaced, well aware that Quentus was likely correct but refusing to admit it entirely. “We’ll see . . . we’ll see.”

  HOUSE KLANDES RAN with order. Bolontes, his stern, patrician features clearly marking him as Nermesa’s father, insisted it be so. As head, he oversaw all of Klandes’ affairs, including their vineyards, granaries, and smithies. Klandes had agreements with every facet of Aquilonia’s government even though Bolontes himself kept some distance from King Conan.

  Klandes was one of the oldest, most stable Houses in all the realm, and its bloodline had flowed through more than a few kings. Thus it was that, even though he outwardly wore a respectful face in the presence of his monarch, Bolontes did not entirely accept the outlander—a Cimmerian, no less—as such.

  And to find out that his only son now intended to serve Conan and serve him willingly was nearly enough to tear asunder the mask the patriarch ever wore.

  “How . . . could . . . this happen?” he demanded of Nermesa. “How could you do this?”

  “I spoke with some friends close to General Pallantides, Father,” Nermesa quickly answered. “You shouldn’t be too surprised! I’ve been taking training for so long—”

  “As any son of House Klandes should! As any future master should! Not as the lackey of a barbarian conqueror!”

  “I will be an officer in the Aquilonian military, Father! A proud tradition that our family has included for most of its existence!”

  The gray-haired Bolontes sniffed, his expression turning imperious. At six-foot-three, Nermesa was taller than average, but his father was two inches taller, enabling the elder Klandes to gaze down at the son as if the latter were still a pimpled child barely out of his first decade.

  “A proud tradition, when the military served Aquilonian kings.”

  Nermesa would not let his father intimidate him. They stood in the great room of the Klandes residence, where each wall gave tribute to past lords of the family. Busts of ancestors from centuries past lined much of the chamber, and each seemed to join Bolontes in eyeing his son in disappointment. The painted marble heads looked so very lifelike that Nermesa did his best to focus only on his father, the true impediment. He did not need to feel as if generations of Klandes condemned him. It was enough that the immediately preceding one did.

  “I suppose that you would have preferred Valerius to continue to reign, or even Namedides.”

  “They were Aquilonian, at least . . .” But here, at last, Bolontes faltered. Even he had been no friend of either. Pursing his lips, Nermesa’s father turned and walked behind the large oak table he used to conduct most of his business. Scrolls covered the six-foot-wide table. Several quills and a flask of ink sat on the far left corner, Bolontes favoring that hand.

  Nermesa, too, was left-handed, and he knew that it was likely the fact that he and his father were so similar in many ways that had them butting heads like two rams so often. Yet, when it came to what was best for their homeland, the two seemed quite far apart.

  The banner of the House hung high behind Bolontes. A red lion in a golden field, with twin swords—also red—crossing over the rearing beast. That Klandes and the Cimmerian-born king both had the animal as their symbol—Conan’s a golden lion on a black field—made no impression on Bolontes. After all, the banner of Klandes went back centuries, whereas the current monarch’s went back only a few years.

  “Understand me, my son. Aquilonia and our House are intertwined as no other clan is. A thriving realm means a thriving Klandes. That you’d wish to protect Aquilonia fills me with pride, but I have difficulty in seeing our home survive under this Conan. How many times has insurrection and war come to us since he took power? He draws danger to him! Is that the sort of ruler we need?”

  “I will be leaving immediately, Father. I’d like to leave with your blessing.”

  Bolontes adjusted the neck of his tunic, a sign that only Nermesa could have recognized as a hint of anxiety. He smoothed his cloak, red with a gold lining, before responding. “Immediately? A quick farewell to your mother and myself and off you go? That’s to be it?”

  “I thought it best,” the younger Klandes insisted. “The better not to draw this out.”

  “Ever thinking of your parents. And what, may I ask, do you plan to do about Orena?”

  Mention of the name caused Nermesa to grit his teeth. “I’ve written a letter that should reach her just about now. I’d hoped you could speak with her, too . . . especially since it was you and her father who arranged our betrothal when she was born.”

  “Lenaro is a House with a breeding almost as pure as our own! I chose the best marriage I could for my only child! Is that what this is? Are you running away from all your responsibilities? Klandes will end up in the hands of one of your cousins if something happens to you, you know. It would be better if at least you had already produced an heir . . .”

  “My marriage to Orena will still take place. I told her so in the letter, Father. It’ll just be a little later.”

  Bolontes planted both fists on the table, ignoring the parchments he crushed in the process. “You will be the end of me, my son.”

  Nermesa began to turn. “Do I have your blessing?”

  “Come back alive and in one piece.”

  It was less than Nermesa had hoped for but more than he had expected. His father remained behind the desk, eyes unblinking. Nermesa nodded, then left the chamber.

  Household guards came to attention, their red-and-gold tunics marking them as property of Klandes. Nermesa barely noticed them. His sandals clattered loudly on the shining marble floor that covered the entire ground level. The symbols of his House had been etched at great price in every tile.

  From behind a fluted pillar burst his mother, Callista. Almost as tall as her son, she was a slim, handsome woman with just a touch of gray in her brown, upswept hair. Her alabaster gown, bound at the waist, trailed behind her. She had softer, rounder features than her husband, with full lips and a petite nose. If there was any similarity in looks with Nermesa, it was in the shape and hue of her blue eyes, which matched even more closely those of the younger Klandes than the father’s.

  Those e
yes were now red with tears. “Oh, Nermesa! Please don’t be angry with him! He’s being harsh with you in part because of me! He knows what it will mean to me for you to go! Please, don’t leave in such a mood!”

  Nermesa softened. “I’m not angry with Father or you, Mother. Just a little disappointed in him. I’m doing what I believe right, and I’m not leaving Klandes forever! He served for four years, remember?”

  “Bolontes was a second son, Nermesa. If not for the death of his eldest brother, he would have stayed in the military . . . but when that happened, he chose the House over all else.”

  “I’ll be all right, I promise.” He kissed her on the cheek. “You needn’t worry about me.”

  Callista returned the kiss on his forehead, as she had done since he was a child. “I will worry nonetheless. That is what a loving mother does.” Her expression softened. “And when the time comes, I will speak with Orena.”

  It was an unexpected gift. “Thank you. I promise, I’ll still live up to the betrothal . . . since I have to.”

  “She is quite a beautiful woman, Nermesa. Would it be that terrible? I know she can be a bit . . . autocratic . . . but, without sons, as eldest child, Orena has had to take on the reins of their House. She’ll be giving up much when you two marry. Lenaro will be absorbed into Klandes, its name lost to history. Imagine if the reverse would take place. How would you react?”

  “I understand what you’re saying, Mother. As I told you, I’ll be going through with the betrothal. Give me time to make my mark. I’ll come back with more glory for House Klandes. That can only increase our prestige, aid our holdings, and even perhaps make me a bit more impressive in Orena’s eyes.”

  “As if you weren’t so already.” Wiping away a tear, Callista added, “At least, whenever you come back to Tarantia, you can visit us.”