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

by Rypel, T. C.

  “The buxom scullion lass, eh?” Paille observed.

  “Watch your tongue, Paille.”

  “Insult his woman, incur his wrath,” Gonji gibed.

  “Me, monsieur? Really! A Frenchman can have nothing but respect for so special a woman!”

  “Oh, Wilf—” Gonji snapped. “Did your father...tell you?”

  The smith’s expression clouded. “Ja. What can I say? My brothers and I were....” He stood shaking his head, lost for words.

  “You never knew anything of it? None of you?”

  “I swear it,” Wilf averred.

  “One moment, monsieurs—what is this business?”

  Gonji explained to Paille the night’s revelation.

  “Whew!” the artist breathed, eyes bulging. “Sacré bleu! So Vedun’s Herr Wunderbar has an ominous past. But...a general with the warlord Klann? Why did he say nothing—?”

  “There’ll be more to tell after tonight, I think,” Gonji said.

  They departed Paille’s loft, the artist exchanging sharp words with his landlady, who greeted Gonji and Wilf pleasantly between snarls at Paille. Once outside, Alain suggested the Provender, Vedun’s larger inn and hostel, for supper, but Gonji declined, having no desire to encounter his nemesis Julian again so soon. Paille took his leave of them, anxious to hear the latest scuttlebutt at the Provender.

  When he had gone Gonji and Wilf clopped along wordlessly for a time, the samurai aware of his young friend’s internal struggle.

  “What’s on your mind now?” Gonji asked finally.

  “Nothing—just—they’re saying you lost a duel to this Captain Julian last night,” Wilf blurted all at once. “I just—is it—”

  “And if I did, what do you make of it?”

  Wilf thought about it for a space, watching Gonji’s proud carriage aboard Tora. “Well, you’re still alive...so I suppose there’s more to it than they’re saying.”

  “Very wise. Now let’s have no more talk of it for now. The conceited captain and I haven’t done with each other yet.”

  “Is he good?” Wilf probed, unable to set it aside.

  “He’s very good,” Gonji responded without a pause. “Let’s go see the physician.”

  They stopped at Dr. Verrico’s, found the doctor out on a call. But an assistant, one of his midwives, offered to cleanse and stitch Gonji’s rent left side. This painfully done, they supped at Wojcik’s Haven, suffering nary an insult from the squad of Llorm dragoons who also ate there, Gonji in fact finding to his surprise that two of the Llorm greeted him of their own accord, if rather curtly.

  Riding to the Gundersens’, exchanging small talk with the now reassured and ebullient Wilf, Gonji found to his great delight that whatever the lost duel had added to Julian’s reputation, it had not been at the expense of Gonji’s: Soldiers gave him wide passage, and more townies than ever greeted him with something more than the sullen stares he’d grown so used to.

  * * * *

  Garth sat alone at one wide side of the table, the others grouped in a semicircle around it, sipping their drinks reflectively. At his left sat Lorenz, languid and relaxed; then Strom, sitting on his hands, one foot tapping nervously, his discomfiture to be beside the icy Tralayn obvious. Wilfred and Gonji sat opposite Garth, Wilf leaning forward with mild apprehension; Gonji’s face, a blank mask. Adjacent to the oriental was the settee on which Lydia and Michael were seated, both seeming cool and dignified, their hands entwined in a rare public display of affection. Finally, at Garth’s right, were Flavio and Milorad, neither appearing very rested or recovered from the previous night’s castle fest.

  Garth’s hands trembled slightly with anticipation, a tiny thrill of nostalgia rippling through his spine at the prospect of reading from the scroll for the first time in twenty years. He unrolled it a few turns, the faded, musty parchment crackling, yielding up the pungent scent of time. Then he read downward several lines, translating in advance the Kunan script for his own ease of reading. The memory gaps filled themselves in rapidly.

  “Chronicle of Tikah Vos. Kanta 16. Scroll 27.... Being a continuation of the History of the House of Bel through the bloodline of Durda’Klann....”

  He skimmed down, rolling the scroll, until he found the passage that caused him to blanch. He licked dry lips and read on.

  “...and so in the days of Sarkanah, when the League of Necromancers had by foul work and insidious treachery vanquished the royalist wizard alliance and savaged their numbers, some inflaming in the night even as they slept such that these goodly spirits were now shunned of men, the wise court mage Zaratakis did counsel flight from Akryllon. All things meet for the lives of men failed on the dwindling isle, once the crowning gemstone of the seas, now a paradise consumed by vermin. Nothing grew, nor did the beasts who were friends to man flourish; men fell as lifeless as stone in the streets, ravaged for mana by evil sorcery.

  “King Jari was sore beset, for Queen Sarna was heavy with child, and the astrologers had murmured fearfully of the natal omens for many months. He prevailed upon Zaratakis to contrive some plan by which the throne of Akryllon might be saved, for flight was unthinkable to the scion of the House of Bel. And Zaratakis did fetter himself in the Tower of Primal Knowledge, and he wept and thrashed and suffered the ineffable Prescience for three days and nights, and when he was dragged from his bondage by soldiers who did sear their hands at his touch, the Tower was engulfed in black flames, and crumbled to dust, and was no more seen of men. And the good wizard was rendered aged and sere by his ordeal, and yet there was nothing that could be done for it. His mana was spent, and there was no more to be done, lest he himself resort to the unspeakable effects of the necromancers....

  “And so, when the defensive gulfs of void and madness had been breached, the king and queen of Akryllon did take flight, with those of the Llorm people yet quick and of sturdy faith....

  “They took to ship amid furious seas, pursued by the hosts of the Enemy, and when...and when the queen’s time had come, she cried out in her pain and anguish. And the midwives withered in their charge and...threw themselves bodily into the sea....

  “And Zaratakis and King Jari attended on the birthings with the last staunch midwife, the blind Anka. And they were born alive. And they were seven.... Seven they were, all dreadfully fragile and in danger of death. And the king and his loyal mage feared the multiple birthing for its portent, but Anka decried their faint hearts and delivered unto them each child in turn, until they at last saw the eerie change that had come over her, the evil of Akryllon reaching to touch them even here, and before Zaratakis could bring her low with his magic, she had brought forth...the tainted one. And it struggled in her arms, though she lay dead. And King Jari would have dashed the strange one against the planks until it breathed no more, but Queen Sarna wailed and pleaded with him to do no harm to any of her issue....

  “And the queen, at the brink of death, begged Zaratakis that he should use his power to save her children, for they would surely die in their frailness. And the wizard pondered, and could find in all the ancient gramarye but one spell that might save them. But it was a terrible spell, and its price would be exacted from all involved. And King Jari rejected the spell, horrified that such a power had ever fallen to the whims of men. But at the last the queen’s pitiable pleas touched his heart, and the king agreed to the awful magick that Zaratakis proposed....

  “And the....”

  Garth’s words caught in his throat. He peered up with darting eyes at his rapt audience.

  “And the seven were made one...and they were a robust, crying man-child, and he was Klann, scion-being of the House of Bel. And they were Klann, and they were one out of seven, and seven in one. It had been provided by Zaratakis that each would take up their life upon the death of the last, and the natural lifetime of them all, that is to say of the seven, would be as the life of a man seven times over....

  “And Queen Sarna, having given up her life force so that her children might live, expired
in the arms of King Jari. And the noble Zaratakis, his work in the land of the living complete, followed after into the dark lands.

  “And the king looked upon the child left to him, and he wept....”

  Garth looked up. His listeners were thunderstruck.

  Flavio’s chagrin etched fine lines of worry into his temples. “A—a phoenix-king?”

  “That is the being you deal with,” Garth agreed. No one else spoke, incredulity and confusion shackling their tongues. “I won’t read more,” he continued, his words tentative and deliberate. “Perhaps I should continue from my own words, about the things I believe to be true of King Klann....

  “This...enchanted child of the scroll grew to manhood, brought up in exile by his father’s hereditary army, who propagated only to serve the legacy of Akryllon. They wandered, stayed alive as they could—and here I’ll ask that you try to sympathize with Klann, not judge him too harshly for what his agonized life has caused him to do. Any of us might have done the same—but they traveled the world, conquering, stealing when they must to stave off extinction. And when they felt strong enough, they would sally forth by ship with whatever army they could raise in an effort to find Akryllon. And ja, that could prove difficult in itself: the sorcerers who wrested it from the House of Bel unfettered it from its moorings in the sea, so it was said. I know only that I sailed once with Klann for Akryllon, and we never found it, though fully a third our number died from the horrors and hardships along the way. Klann is obsessed with finding his homeland and then taking it back from the usurpers....”

  They kept watching him, waiting to hear more, waiting for some statement by which he could render the tale believable to them.

  “I don’t know what else I can tell you.... Maybe you...have questions?”

  And the spell was abruptly shattered. They began to breathe normally, and move, and, thankfully, to speak.

  “Very sorry, my friend, but...do you truly believe all this about him?” Gonji queried, gazing at him with suspicion.

  Garth thought of the things he had lived through those many years past. “Ja, Gonji, I do.”

  “I myself have reason to believe in the sallies after Akryllon. I’ve known others who’ve crossed Klann’s path,” Gonji ventured, recalling the tale told by old Jocko. “But I think there’s more to Klann’s legend that—”

  “Klann dies and then comes to life again?” Wilf asked. He sat beside Gonji, a carbon copy of the samurai’s skeptical posturing.

  “Not seven lives—seven persons, my son,” Garth replied patiently. “Transmogrification, I’ve heard it called. One person dies and is immediately replaced by another—” His hands fluttered as if to construct an explanation out of thin air. “Like—like the legendary phoenix, as Flavio has said.”

  “Ridiculous,” Milorad blustered under his breath. His eyes were heavy lidded, as if he were courting sleep. He sipped his mead. “In these enlightened times.”

  “In this day and age,” Gonji countered, “giants walk the wards of your Castle Lenska.”

  “What—?” Strom piped in, suddenly alert. “Giants?”

  “Mord has a friendly giant up at the castle,” Gonji said, smiling thinly.

  “You never told me that,” Wilf said, looking hurt. “Is it—is it—”

  “Don’t worry about it now, Wilfred,” Garth urged.

  “Your Genya is a match for any giant,” Lorenz teased. There were a few chuckles, the tension easing out of them.

  Garth was relieved to see the gradual dawning of credulity.

  “Have you ever seen one of these...changes?” Gonji probed.

  “Nein,” Garth answered slowly, shifting position, “but I believe in them. Lorenz—you remember earlier I asked you whether you remembered being held by Klann as a babe, and you said you did, you remembered a black-bearded man who frightened you? That was Klann. That was the Klann I rode with. He was the second. The first was said to have been killed in battle in Italy not long before I joined the army. The one I knew was shot to death several years ago by a crazed mercenary in his employ. You’ll recall, last night, gentlemen—the soldier Klann cast out of the banquet hall for wearing a forbidden pistol. Klann told me about the shooting when we drank in his chambers. I’m convinced that he is Klann. He told me things only Klann could know of our former alliance.”

  Gonji shook his head gravely. “I’m convinced Mord has something to do with this Klann legend, something more than you know or—”

  “Impossible,” Garth countered. “Mord is quite new with the army. And I noted a certain ill will between them. It was there, unmistakable, in Klann’s every word of the sorcerer.”

  “Mord is our chief nemesis nonetheless,” Tralayn said, at last speaking. “Klann has chosen the power of the Evil One.” She seemed strangely smug, some small private triumph perking the corners of her lips.

  “Has Klann no sisters?” Lydia asked sarcastically.

  Garth looked at her, not liking her tone. For as long as he had known the Benedettos, Lydia had doted on him, held him up as an example to her husband. Now suddenly her entire attitude had changed. Since she had learned the formerly hidden and heretofore unthreatening details of his militaristic background—and now the bewildering history of Klann—she acted as if he had betrayed a trust. She leaned back, her lips pressed together in suppression of a derisive smile and held Michael’s hand like an anchor for her shaken reality. If only, he thought, if only you would hold the boy’s hand in support once in a while....

  “Ja,” Garth replied, smiling affably, “Klann did speak to me of having sisters among the Brethren, as he calls them.”

  “Oh, Garth,” Lydia sighed in exasperation, “this is all so incredible, coming from you.”

  “We’ve all seen our share of incredible things lately, Lydia,” Lorenz interjected. “If my father believes what he says, then so do I.”

  “Himmel,” Strom whispered, the safety and sanity of his small, predictable world forever dashed.

  “It would explain certain things...,” Gonji thought aloud.

  “It’s all absurd,” Michael spoke up, the last person in the room to comment. He had regained something of his former dignity, a calm surety in his mien. He no longer looked disgraced by his bruised eyes and gradually healing broken nose. “All quite absurd—”

  “Michael,” Tralayn cautioned softly, “think. Think of the unnatural things we’ve been witness to, of the foul sorcery that’s touched more than one life—”

  “You didn’t let me finish, good Tralayn,” Michael cut in. “I say it’s all madly absurd, yet what choice have we but to take it at face value? Sí, for the very reason you state. And Garth’s word is as good as Flavio’s to me.”

  Tralayn nodded solemnly.

  “What was that business of ‘mana’ being spent, Garth?” Gonji asked.

  Garth thought about the things he’d heard many years ago. He cleared his throat. “It’s...some sort of power magicians draw from the things around them, I think.”

  “Earth magick imparted to followers of Satan,” Tralayn added flatly. They all stared, and one or two shivered a bit at her frankness in discussing cosmic evil. “But unlike the gifts of Providence, mana is drawn from the things the dark agents can smother. Living things, left lifeless...soulless....”

  “You know, you have a lovely city here,” Gonji began impassively, narrow dark eyes panning over them paternalistically. “I’ve come to like it very much. It’s amazing that you’ve survived, given what I’ve seen of this country, the powers that vie for supremacy in these mountains. And now this invasion by Klann and what he’s brought. If a fraction of what Garth says is true—and the councilman’s wife will, dozo, recall the wyvern and the giant we’ve seen at Castle Lenska—then you people must begin thinking of your future security.”

  Lydia leaned forward, and although she looked across the table to where Strom slouched on his stool, she addressed Gonji. “The councilman’s wife’s beliefs are of little import to the city�
�s future. But the Elder’s bodyguard might remember to uphold the city’s social proprieties. I understand you made quite an impression at the baths this morning.”

  There followed laughter and a few questions, and Gonji’s equanimity was disturbed by the slight reddening of his cheeks as the incident was recounted for those who had yet to hear.

  “It all fits,” Tralayn said, standing suddenly. “Listen to me, all of you, the time of epochal change has come and has centered in Vedun. The Dark Powers join for a final thrust at overt dominion over the world of men. Men of Destiny have gathered here for the playing out of the drama, with all the spiritual world as its audience. I have had a vision that I could not interpret fully until tonight. A vision of a clash between unusual men, men of strange birthing....” She faced Gonji, the fanatic’s torchlight limning her emerald eyes. “Gonji, have you not said that you are a half-breed, your parents’ commingling of races being the only such ever known?”

  “Hai, but—”

  “Then it must be true. But can I also have misinterpreted the identity of the Deliverer?” she thought aloud, eyes clouding over, their vision filling with things denied the rest of them. “Can you—to us an infidel—be the promised Deliverer?”

  “Whoa, lady!” Gonji said somberly. “Keep me out of your wild visions. If even half this business is true, you people are in more trouble than you know. I’m not sure that it’s my karma to become involved any more than I am already. Anyway, I’ve my own visions to interpret, so sorry. And there’s nothing strange about my birthing,” he concluded, vaguely threatening.

  A resolute expression appeared in the hard-set lines of Tralayn’s firm jaw. “Garth, I must ask your sons and the good Milorad to leave, please. It’s a matter of oath.”

  Shock pervaded the room. Milorad emitted a querulous grunt and sat bolt upright, now wide awake. Flavio half rose as if he would object but sat back with grim resignation to see Tralayn’s determined air of command. He nodded dolefully to his friend and counselor that he must leave. Garth held his breath a few anxious seconds, then in a small voice directed his reluctant sons to remove themselves from the house until called for. Milorad shuffled out behind them, his dignity wounded.