Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two

by Rypel, T. C.

  “You can come to me on your knees tomorrow, down in the dungeons, and then we’ll...talk about restoring what you’ve lost.” And Mord was gone.

  And the mercenary lay staring at the smoky ceiling, too drunk now to gag or scream or weep as he would in the morning when he pulled off his boots to see the wriggling things that had supplanted his toes.

  CHAPTER SIX

  They rode back to Vedun in the pre-dawn gloom under lowering skies, the clink and squeak of saddles and harnesses mingling with the clatter of hooves on the cobblestone road. It was chilly and damp.

  Behind them Gonji recognized the ominous “faith chant” of Mord, mistimed and discordant as it rose up from chambers and wards in the castle.

  They rode to the edge of the paving and across, where the way began to descend to the plateau. There they waited for their escort to catch up, as they thought they were obliged to do. The mercenary troop slowed and waved them ahead.

  They shrugged to one another and were about to move on when Gonji halted them, seeing something on the castle ramparts.

  There stood Mord, a black and gold gargoyle, staring after them. He raised his arms out to his sides, and high above him in the crenellated cradle of a drum tower, the motion was mirrored.

  The ghastly wyvern unfurled its batwings and emerged from demon-sleep. Rotating its antlered head languidly, opening its jaws to uncoil a long forked tongue, it screeched once, a cracked morning greeting from hell to the world of the sane and normal. Then it lofted from its perch with a grace that belied its bulk, as if on invisible traces. With a slow, confident flapping it soared down toward the mounted party.

  “Cholera-pox!” Gonji breathed through clenched teeth, reaching for the Sagami’s hilt. He had no bow along, nothing that could serve as long-range armament.

  Not now. Not like this....

  “Jesu Christi!” Milorad whimpered.

  “Stand your ground,” Gonji commanded.

  The wyvern hovered overhead, and Gonji met its piercing fire-lick gaze defiantly. It slowed impossibly, looking hollow as a dragon-kite, jackal’s head angling down at them. And then Gonji saw: his arrow stub was gone from its belly. For an instant its eyes became Mord’s, then it lashed its wings hard and skirred off with a rushing of wind that tore at the chapeaus of Flavio, Milorad, and Garth. Trailing its barbed tail, talons drawn back along its sides, it hurtled over the lowlands in search of morning forage.

  Gonji expelled his breath and relaxed. What sort of game was Mord playing? If he was sure Gonji had attacked the beast, why didn’t he finish him when he had the chance? Ah—the king, that was it. Now that he was Klann’s spy....

  The memory of the mutilated monks at Holy Word Monastery returned to him, and he wondered what this creature ate that turned into searing saliva and filthy corrupting excrement in its innards.

  They rode on, the mercenary troop falling ever farther behind, cackling and chattering, still reeling from the night’s orgiastic revelry. Soon they stopped following altogether, then doubled back to the castle like bouncers who had expelled personae non grata.

  “Garth,” Gonji called, cantering alongside the big smith, “why in hell didn’t you say all you knew about Klann before? What is this business about you saving his life?”

  “Ja, Garth,” Milorad added in a voice jouncy from the horses’ gait, “you were a general in this army once?”

  “His Field Commander,” Garth replied, raising his eyebrows for emphasis, a small silly grin splitting his face. His eyes were red and puffy. All four were rosy-eyed and irritable from sleeplessness, drinking, and the jading feast, but Garth’s eyes seemed especially raw. He had the look of a man spent by maudlin tearfulness.

  “Like Ben-Draba?” Gonji pressed. Then, seeing Garth’s nod, he added, “But why hide it all this time?”

  “What was to be gained? I just didn’t think it important enough. And I have reasons for not wishing to call up old memories.”

  “Your wife’s death?” Gonji probed.

  Garth shot him a look but didn’t inquire as to his source for the information. “Ja, for one thing,” he answered thickly. “My beautiful wife...mother of my sons....” His voice now carried a rambling quality, thoughts drifting. “Cut down by the plague in her prime...burned...cremated with all the other victims....”

  His lips and eyes began to quiver as if he would begin to cry. Gonji looked away, staring straight ahead along the road.

  “And that’s what cost you the will to fight, the desire to continue as a soldier?” Flavio asked.

  “Ja,” Garth said, breath hitching.

  He reached down to his saddle for a skin filled with ale and gulped down half its contents. As if it had been a sanctioning signal, Milorad also retrieved a skin from a pouch, this one filled with mead. With a sly grin the snowy-bearded ex-statesman slogged at the thick, sweet liqueur.

  “Must have my fill before I reach home and Mama finds out how much I’ve had tonight,” Milorad said with an uncharacteristic cackle and hiccup that made Flavio smile.

  Gonji could only grimace to watch the old man’s zestful pleasure in the cloying beverage.

  Weary and sore, surfeited of feasting and bewildered by the mosaic of castle events he was unable to make sense of, Gonji fell to brooding silence. Sleep. That was what he needed. Refreshing sleep. Then to discuss with the city leaders what they planned to do now that they’d met with the evasive king. Probe this blacksmith who never revealed all he knew of any subject. That’s what he’d do later. Then practice. Work at his skills. Julian. Forget him. Don’t be troubled by the foolish duel. More important things to consider now.

  What will be my next move? What is it I want to know about—?

  “Well, my friends,” Flavio began, shattering Gonji’s reverie, “tell me what you all think of our future now. Now that we’ve met with Klann—eh, those of us who...didn’t already have his acquaintance.” His sheepish smile was aimed at Garth.

  “Oh, it’s a most optimistic promise for the future,” Milorad declared, reeling a bit in the saddle. “He’s a very agreeable fellow. I think he’s been honest with us.”

  “He has,” Garth agreed curtly.

  “Don’t be too sure,” Gonji cautioned. “So sorry, but too facile trust is a great enemy right now. He’s done nothing definite about your request for redress of grievances.”

  “He will,” Garth countered. “He was always...fair.” There was, Gonji decided, a trace of irony in the smith’s statement.

  “I believe so, also,” Flavio assured. “He has promised recompense, the support of the bereaved families, visiting privileges for those held against their will....”

  “Hai, a lot of hollow promises. Typical political vaguery.” Gonji frowned, determined to take the part of the devil’s advocate, personally aggrieved as he was by Klann’s minions. But deep inside he could find no compelling reason to distrust Klann himself other than the single thing that most bothered him about the legendary king:

  “And recall, if you please, his unnerving habit of changing his mind capriciously. To me that’s a dangerous sign. You saw how hostile Mord continues to be toward the city. He seems to enjoy much influence with Klann. That, too, bodes ill. Even if Klann is serious about leaving in the spring—and would you, if you were in his comfortable circumstances? But even if he does, what happens until then?”

  “Until then,” Flavio said with growing annoyance, “we shall operate as we always have under Baron Rorka’s protection.”

  “Hai, and will you expect the same protection from Klann? What about the mercenary companies? Can you coexist with brigands peacefully for the better part of a year? It looked as though few, if any, are billeted at the castle—even their king doesn’t trust them! Are you going to live beside them?”

  “If necessary,” Flavio said brusquely.

  “So sorry, but that will be difficult, I think,” Gonji persisted. “He’ll be recruiting new ones to bolster his army. Your city’s going to be overrun with rogues
. Every misfit scum for a thousand kilometers in every direction will be heading for Vedun soon. You’ll be crawling with them. Where will they all stay when the barracks and inns are filled?”

  “We have plenty of room. There’s vacant housing—”

  “Ah—so then my master will give the city away to them! Certainly, give them everything. And when everything runs out—? What if Klann hires too many and his gold supply dwindles? Suppose they don’t like what they’re being paid—?”

  Milorad choked on his mead. It trickled into his beard. “Hoo-hoo! That’s a laugh! They sacked Bratislava, and now they’ve got the good Baron’s treasure vaults, stuffed to overflowing with taxation from the plump years of Transylvanian commerce! Hee-heee—!”

  They all chuckled, even Garth, for seeing Milorad so out of character wrung much of the tension from them.

  “My, aren’t we the crew,” Gonji said, rubbing his painful rib wound. “Four drunks planning the future of an occupied city!”

  They shared a hearty laugh of good fellowship there on the road to Vedun in the dark hour before dawn, bridles jangling merrily in accompaniment.

  “You’re not drunk enough,” Garth said affably, holding out the ale-skin. “Here—drink.”

  Gonji accepted the skin with a bow and pulled at it.

  “All right,” the samurai began in a less argumentative tone, “then let us suppose Klann’s army has both gold and room enough to keep them placid. There are...other things.”

  “Meaning what?” Flavio inquired.

  “Mercenaries live at the end of a fragile tether. One that’s easily broken. They’re meant for the battlefield, not for occupation duty. Most of them are happiest when fighting. When they can’t fight, they chafe. They look for fights. You’ve seen that already in Vedun. Believe me, I’ve been with enough mercenary armies to know what I speak of. And they’re lustful. They’re not pleasant when their gold can’t satisfy all their lusts. How many pleasure women have you in Vedun?”

  Milorad gasped. “Such talk!”

  “We would hope there are none,” Flavio said uncertainly.

  “Come now—I’ve been to the inns.”

  “A few, perhaps.”

  “Quite a few now, I think,” Gonji corrected. “And more will be coming to the city even as recruits are added. They’re natural camp followers.”

  “We have an ordinance against them—”

  “You have a new social order,” Gonji reminded him firmly. “Think about it, please.”

  Flavio sighed sonorously, his troubles shadowing his face. “You paint a bleak picture, signore samurai.”

  “So sorry, but it is an accurate one, I believe.” They guided their steeds around a curve. “The giant,” Gonji recalled suddenly. “What will you say of him in Vedun?”

  The recollection of the creature, his strangely unsettling mixture of the terrible and the pathetic, caused a sweeping discomfort.

  “I think...,” Flavio said slowly at last, “that it would be best to say nothing of him for now.”

  Gonji’s lips twisted, and he shook his head ruefully over the Elder’s continued efforts to table matters of military concern.

  “That must be the beast that broke into the treasury at Bratislava, the one Jacob Neriah and—” Milorad caught himself before he saw Flavio’s warning glance. He had been about to reveal the continued existence of the secreted Baron Rorka.

  The conspiratorial silence that followed annoyed Gonji, made him feel once again the onerous lot of the outsider. To be alone among companions....

  “While we’re on the subject of threats to Vedun’s security, friend Gonji,” Flavio said with a hint of humor, “why did you allow yourself to become involved in that duel with Captain Kel’Tekeli? You might have killed him, and who knows what might have resulted?”

  “Or, he might have killed me, and you’d be rid of my pessimistic counsel, neh?” Gonji replied cynically.

  Flavio tsked. “Really, my friend, do you think that is my wish? Actually, I’m growing rather fond of your company. Your protective presence makes an old man feel important.”

  “Domo arigato, Elder-san, but you are important. These people do need your guidance. It’s so obvious that they have great respect for you and faith in your administrative abilities.”

  “Not so much as you’d think anymore,” Flavio replied wistfully.

  Gonji smiled, deciding the time was right for the revelation. “But you needn’t have worried about the duel. My promise to you was never far from my thinking. The duel was a personal matter between myself and the arrogant captain. I could not refuse his challenge. But there was nothing to fear. After all, he, too...is my boss....”

  “Wha-a-a-t?”

  They all looked to Gonji for an explanation.

  “What are you saying?”

  “I hired on with him as a spy to reveal all your rebellious secrets. So far I’ve had little to tell for his money....”

  “I don’t under—”

  “But why?”

  Gonji pondered his rationale. “To confound him. To relieve him of some of his money—I can’t tell you how good that feels! To play him for the fool. He’s done me grave personal insult, and until our time of final crossing I wished to keep him in the forefront as an object of revulsion....”

  “I don’t like this one bit,” Flavio said, frowning and shaking his head. “Are you using both sides for your own profit?”

  “Of course not—”

  “You may cause untold damage with such meddling,” Milorad added.

  “Very sorry, but I must point out the other side of the coin. Think of the potential for control over policy this could give you. I can impart to him whatever information you’d like that might be helpful to your cause. It has already helped. How do you suppose the banquet meeting was arranged? I suggested that Julian speak to Klann about it. He’s a direct line of communication to Klann.”

  “But now we have established communication with the king,” Garth observed.

  “Have we?” Gonji questioned. “We’ll see. And if we have, it was—so sorry—owing nothing to you, my friend. I believe you are not telling all you know of Klann and his intentions, and I cannot accept your simple reasoning for not telling your connection to him. Forgive me, and may all due honor attend your wife’s spirit.”

  Garth stared, hollow-eyed, discomfited now to so abruptly have the conversation shift back to his former association with the Invincible.

  “That’s uncalled-for, Gonji,” Flavio said. “I trust Garth implicitly, as do all in the city. His motives are above reproach.”

  Garth seemed to be struggling with something. “I think...perhaps the time has come for an accounting. Gonji is right. Tonight at my home I will read you all a document that will clarify many things about Klann. But come prepared to hear a most curious and frightening tale. Tonight, then.”

  Riding along with the nagging pain of his wounds and the settling ache the chill brought to his weary thews, Gonji nonetheless felt a surge of triumph. His persistence had broken through the smith’s shell of secrecy. Now, perhaps, they’d have some definitive answers to the questions surrounding the wandering king.

  But what was it that he had intended to ask Garth about the banquet? Some harping memory buried by the whirlwind events and disclosures of the night....

  “Iorgens, is it?” Flavio said gaily to Garth. “Just when we begin to think the years have revealed all there is to know of someone!”

  “Ja, it is my true surname. Gundersen was my mother’s. All will be told tonight—all that I can say I truthfully know. After we sleep—and after I’ve had the chance to speak with my sons privately first.”

  “Of course,” Flavio agreed readily.

  Milorad belched. “To Iorgens!” he toasted, slugging at his mead. The others laughed and joined in, Gonji again sharing Garth’s ale, enjoying the warmth that spread through his belly.

  “Why dishonor your name by repudiating it?” Gonji asked.

&nb
sp; “I wished nothing of my former life to intrude on my new one. That’s the simple truth of it.”

  They clumped over a gently rolling hillock, the mighty walls of Vedun coming into view in the south.

  “Did you really believe Klann wouldn’t remember you, Garth?” Milorad asked, still grinning crookedly.

  “Hai,” Gonji added. “After your obvious importance to him in the past? You saved his life twice?”

  “His, but not his,” Garth replied cryptically. “You see...that’s not the Klann I served. I saw him today for the first time, even as all of you did.”

  His companions casting about in shocked confusion for an explanation, Garth chortled lightly. “Later,” he said. “Tonight, I’ll tell all, and you can choose to believe what you will when I’m done.”

  The road sloped down to the plateau’s cultivated lowlands on the left. To the right were the gracefully curving foothills of the Carpathians, the verdant meadows on which flocks already grazed, among them the charges of Garth’s son Strom. Above and behind, stretching forever into the western horizon, swept the brooding pine forests whose denizens shrugged off the mantle of sleep and began to cry and chirrup a new day’s survival concerns. Straight ahead, low on the southern horizon, lay Vedun. Steaming vapors from the flatlands and the valley beyond the city hung thick and dreamlike around its enveloping walls, cutting it off from the precipice that anchored it. It appeared almost to float in the air on a cushion of ethereal mist. A fabulous city out of the realm of dreams.

  Out of the swirling mist far down the road, herdsmen approached with their flocks and herds. Behind came rattling drays drawn by draft animals, farmers with their implements. Some were pointing in the direction of the delegates.

  “Time to lay up the wineskins, I think, and affect some semblance of decorum, gentlemen,” Flavio cautioned. “Mil, I’m going to need your support in a moment.”

  “Of course, old friend,” Milorad assured. He hiccuped and rubbed his red face self-consciously.