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

by Rypel, T. C.

  He tugged at one ear pensively, trying to piece together something that might sound like useful intelligence. Nine bells. Well, he had a little time. And at least now he might learn what had the soldiery so edgy.

  He cantered to the tanner’s and found that his cuirass was ready, as were the set of pauldrons and vambraces. The cuirass was a fine piece of workmanship, a tough leather shell for protecting the breast and back that was the best he’d ever donned. And the pauldrons and vambraces, constructed of lames, or overlapping scales of hard leather, were designed to protect the shoulders and arms from sword cuts. Gonji found them snug but comfortable and well-oiled for freedom of movement.

  It was a fine day for new acquisitions, he found, when he checked in at the cobbler’s to discover his new soft leather riding boots awaiting his inspection. They were beautiful and quite comfortable, yet he curiously disdained wearing them, preferring instead to continue with his tabi and sandals. He rode off mildly miffed at himself that he had allowed last week’s sudden flush of lucre to seduce him to such profligate spending, and so tawdry an example of Westernization as a pair of Italian riding boots.

  He shrugged and rode to the Gundersens’, where he stashed his new belongings in Wilf’s bedchamber. After a laconic exchange with the again moody Wilf, he trotted off for the Provender.

  At nine bells he sat aboard Tora in the caravanserai, wagons and draft beasts and traveling merchants clamoring around the inn amid odors of food, drink, and animal waste. A mercenary on foot indicated a covered dray in a rear corner. Gonji dismounted and climbed aboard warily, then took a seat facing Julian in the cramped quarters.

  “How are they talking since the castle banquet?” Julian probed without preamble. He was dressed like a foppish merchant in dun-colored silks and cowhide breeches. A three-cornered hat sat beside him. His only armament was a dagger fastened to his wide leather belt.

  “The leaders, to a man, want peace,” Gonji replied. “They’re very optimistic since they met with Klann.”

  “That’s all?” Julian’s tone denoted disappointment.

  “Well...,” Gonji began, fabricating, not liking being called on the carpet by this contemptible bastard, “there is an undercurrent of something. I just haven’t gotten the confidence of the right people yet. They still talk of the Deathwind, only now they’re calling it a promised Deliverer, some sort of death angel who will free them from oppression. Believe me, no one would like to know more than I, what they’re talking about....” He shook his head and creased his brow, affecting a perplexity that he hoped would be convincing. Julian’s face betrayed nothing.

  “Where were you last night?” the captain asked flatly.

  Gonji’s memory raced backward. No, no there was nothing to hide. “At the Gundersens’. All evening. Several others were there....” He caught himself, angered that Julian had squeezed a guilty tone from him, and took a more aggressive tack. “Then I took a room at Wojcik’s—why? What’s on your mind, Captain?”

  “Well, that checks out.”

  “What checks out?” Gonji’s muscles tautened.

  “Two soldiers were killed last night—butchered, I should say—along with their horses.” Julian smiled sardonically. “A crude effort at concealment was made with the...remains.”

  “And you suspect me?” Gonji’s eyes tapered.

  “No. No, it wasn’t your style,” Julian replied, leaning back and relaxing. “But in my position I’ve learned to extend only so much trust to my hirelings.”

  Gonji scowled, nodded curtly. “Who found these...remains?”

  “The same person who verified your whereabouts—Garth Iorgens’ son, the shepherd.”

  Strom. The samurai’s thoughts raked over this information, forward and backward, eyes unseeing, though they continued to hold the captain’s.

  “You know,” Julian began leisurely, “I’ve heard something disquieting about you—”

  Gonji returned to the present. “So desu ka? Is that so? What’s that?”

  “It’s said that you brought back the councilman Benedetto’s dead brother from the forest. That you had to kill some men to do it.”

  They knew.

  Gonji tightened, his pulse galloping, a chortle disguising his captive breath. “Hai, that’s the story I’ve told. Haven’t you wondered at how easily I’ve won their confidence? The truth is that the men I encountered where I found the boy were already as dead as he was. Probably more work of your mysterious ‘butcher.’”

  “I wonder,” Julian said quietly. “Pick up the hat.”

  “Eh?” Gonji cocked an eyebrow.

  “The hat.”

  Gonji reached across and overturned the slouch hat. Beneath lay a shriveled apple, brown and wrinkled.

  “What’s that?” Gonji queried.

  “Pick it up.”

  He did so. It felt dry and somehow too light.

  “The nights have been cold, neh?” the samurai observed.

  “Not that cold. Squeeze it.”

  Gonji paused a moment, then crushed the fruit in his hand. It crumbled into powder, soughed through his fingers. It had felt oddly unsavory. He regarded Julian quizzically.

  “A third of the farmers’ yield looks like that today,” the captain said. “What do you know of it? Are the farmers pursuing some sort of...passive resistance against Klann?”

  “Iye—to what purpose?”

  “I don’t know. You find out. You can tell your Flavio that Klann is learning of all these things right now, and I’d wager there’ll be repercussions.” He toed the strange powder with his boot. “Like magick, eh?”

  Gonji’s mind reeled with questions. Caution. Think.

  “Who told you of this ‘death angel’ you speak of?” Julian queried.

  “Eh...the prophetess, Tralayn,” Gonji replied absently, then immediately regretted the unguarded, unconsidered admission. Damn me for a fool!

  “The town witch—I thought as much. Legendary Deliverers and magical crop destruction.... I’m going to have her arrested for questioning.”

  Panic clutched Gonji. He gripped his knees to stave the trembling. Cholera—not the keeper of the answers to my quest.... What can I—?

  He laughed abrasively. “So sorry, Captain, but that would be very stupid!”

  Julian blustered, losing composure. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I mean that she’s their holy woman. They’re already worried because their priests haven’t shown up as they’re supposed to, and she’s all they’ve got for leading their devotions. Arresting her would be the surest way of inciting rebellion. Better let me check out what’s going on first before you make any rash moves against city leaders.”

  Gonji rose to go, hunched over in the cramped quarters. “I’ll let you know anything that might shed light on these events.”

  Julian studied him closely. “All right. I’ll be waiting. Oh, samurai—no hard feelings about the castle business, eh? It was intended to enhance your cover, and I think it served its purpose. You should have seen the old guy—the Elder’s face—when I cut you there.” He pointed to Gonji’s ribs, and his meaning was clear: It was a brash warning against crossing him and a reminder of the outcome of their duel. Had he learned no respect at all for Gonji’s sword in the encounter? From his self-assured posturing it was clear that he hadn’t. All that had mattered to Julian was that he had been victorious.

  Gonji grinned maliciously around clenched teeth but bowed curtly in assent. You’ll get yours.... But the specter of doubt continued to flutter over the memory.

  * * * *

  Suddenly squeezing his thick fist, Klann crushed the brittle thing that had been a ripening apricot. He hurled it at the Llorm dragoon, then at once regained his dignity, clamping his fists at his sides, steeling himself. Someone’s breath hissed. The dragoon had flinched, turning his face and shutting his eyes, but with goodly discipline he had maintained parade rest. The king espied the people gathered in his chamber, sorely regretting his loss of te
mper.

  General Gorkin stared at him wide-eyed, his wife at his side, nibbling at her lip. The dragoon resumed the professional soldier’s mask, while Captain Sianno regarded the floor’s gray tiles. Mord stood behind Sianno, the inscrutable golden mask bobbing smugly, arms folded. Leaning against the bedchamber arch: Thorvald, her eyes twitching expectantly. The buxom Genya’s nervous clatter of serving ware punctuated the strained silence.

  Klann struggled with reason, impulse, and the chaotic council of the Brethren.

  (take measures against them—now)

  (caution, brother, have a care)

  (investigate—move—but trust only in our judgment)

  “It is as I have said, is it not?” Mord advanced. “They’ll resist you endlessly under that facade of placid religiosity.”

  “And so what shall we do, Magician Most Sublime?” Klann grated, all joviality of the banquet night dashed by his confused indignance. “Destroy them all?”

  Mord met his liege’s sarcasm with practiced equanimity. “Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary, sire. They need a lesson perhaps, that’s all.”

  “A lesson,” the king echoed. He pointed at the crumbled fruit. “What is that? How was it done? You’re supposed to keep me one step ahead of such treachery. Is it magick?”

  “Hardly, sire.” Mord walked over and bent to sift the strange substance. He clucked to himself. “No, not magick precisely but a very clever potion nonetheless. An arcane compound known to few but the rare adepts among us. Hmmm...there’s a witch who resides in the city. Perhaps she—”

  Klann waved an arm. “Stop! We don’t want to know! Witches and goblins and demons and monsters—we care only about people! Our people. We’re full up with sorcery, Mord. What sorcery we’ve encountered has been either antagonistic to us or inept on our behalf.”

  Mord bowed his head in a gesture of fealty. “Milord, may I remind you, at the risk of being impertinent—”

  “No, don’t remind me!” Klann roared, cutting short the magician’s basso profundo. “Just—just see what you can do about counteracting this—this—blight. And proceed with your other...experiments.” But the king cared not to think on the foul business, and so he turned to Sianno. “And that is all you have to tell of these ambushed troops?”

  “I fear so, sire,” the Llorm garrison commander answered.

  “Slaughtered,” Klann said, his gaze remote, lost in the timeworn stone of the chamber wall. “And what of your Llorm patrols? Haven’t they been stationed so that one is never long out of sight of the others?”

  Sianno nodded, his palms upturned in penitent bewilderment.

  “Can there be a connection between the crop destruction and the ambush?”

  “It was in the same area, milord. But I fear there’s more here than meets the eye. There’s disturbing talk among the populace of...things you’d care not to hear about, I think....” His voice dwindled to a mutter.

  “Sorceries and legends,” Klann growled. Sianno only shrugged. “Do you suspect rebellious action? Are the people at large to blame?”

  “It’s certainly possible.”

  Klann ground out a Kunan curse and pounded his fists on the marble-topped table, startling the servant girl as she laid out his meal.

  “We want peace with these people—don’t they understand? We’re tired of conflict. We can ill afford it. One winter’s respite from fighting—is that so much to ask? We’ll have peace here,” he said with grim resolution, “if we have to crush a few skulls to secure it! What do these people want of us? We feast their leaders, and then they claw at our backs like this.”

  “They’re full of deceit, sire,” Mord observed.

  “Find out what you can,” Klann said, sighing, restoring his composure again. “Bring me news. Threaten them. Cajole them. Coddle them—do whatever works! Tell them if they plan to starve us out, their children will shrivel before ours. We’ll brook no defiance. Tell them that. Shore up the city garrison, and extend the outreach for mercenaries. Send me the paymaster,” he said, turning to Gorkin. “We’re going to increase the free companions’ wage.” Then his vision clouded over, a tale from long ago played out before it, a story of lost Akryllon.

  “One more thrust,” he mumbled. “Just one more thrust....”

  “Sire,” came Mord’s booming voice, slashing through his reverie, “I am in need of more...assistants in my work. Shall I...procure them?”

  Klann saw Sianno’s downcast look, and he knew they were sharing the same grim thought. What had become of the other conscripted citizens who were taken for Mord’s grisly experiments? But of course he knew. He knew, but his conscious mind refused to dwell on the result of the sorcerer’s terrible efforts at separating the Brethren. And there would be an accounting. Oh yes. There would come a time when they would come after their hostages, and then what? And then what? For this reason Vedun’s outrages must be borne stoically; tolerance must be stretched to its limits.

  And the voices of the Brethren came to him again from within, crying out against this fatalistic madness, for once in unison in their pleas. No, no, my Brethren, you must understand. It must be done. If you could know emergence, if you could breathe the air for yourselves, fill your lungs with life, you would yearn for separation as I do....

  “Yes, take them,” he said in a tremulous voice, “take only as many as you need, and call them hostages. Tell them...tell them restoration will be made when we’ve learned we can trust them.” And these last words burst forth in a fast jumble as if muddling through them could make it all true.

  And then the vivacious servant girl was speaking soothingly to him in German, and Gorkin’s wife and Thorvald were moving forward to hush her.

  Genya could understand nothing of the Kunan tongue. She knew only that King Klann was perturbed by the news brought first by Sianno, then by the Llorm rider. She puzzled at the significance of the crumbling substance Klann had hurled at his cavalryman. And she knew that there was something wrong in Vedun.

  She had to know what.

  “Milord king, your meal grows tepid,” she said in the charged air of the receiving chamber, “and the wine will help sooth your ill humor. It’s a very fine vintage—”

  “Hush, girl!” Thorvald commanded.

  “Hold your tongue, scullion!” Lady Gorkin added.

  Klann held up a halting hand, and the pair drew back. Genya saw a curious look in his eyes that vaguely alarmed her. There was a sardonic quality in his voice; alien, as if it were the voice of another.

  “Do you know what’s happening, little minx? Your countrymen are undermining our desires. You know them better than anyone in this room. Tell us why they struggle against us.”

  “It’s not like them to fight, sire,” she replied with affected ingenuousness, eager to pacify him now that she had the floor. “But what is it they’re supposed to have done?” Klann didn’t reply, and she grew uneasy to see the suspicion and cynicism creeping into his stare. “Perhaps if you sent me to the city I might...speak with them....”

  But she knew the words were all wrong. She shrank before his cold gaze. Her abruptness and self-concern had shaken his trust.

  “Leave us now,” he said curtly.

  She scurried out with an awkward curtsy, feeling the angry stares of the women boring into her back, a chill coursing through her when she passed the masked magician, imagining herself a child again, skirting the terrifying black pit of her father’s open cellar.

  * * * *

  Mord experienced a mixed exhilaration and anxiety.

  The unexpected ambush of the mercenary patrol he had sent to scout the deadly fog was a boon he hadn’t counted on. The apparent insurgent violence had had predictable effect on Klann, and it should have motivated him to a reprisal that would in turn have escalated the city’s desperation. Yet he stubbornly refused to squeeze his grip on these blasted cross-worshipers. He was determined to preserve peace at all costs.

  I should have destroyed all the crops, he though
t. No-no, that would too surely indicate earth magick. Patience. All in good time. Don’t arouse his suspicions. Just keep placating him with these spells of division. The fool—if I use enough of these people as subjects I’ll eventually have my way, whatever he does! But that’s not enough. Remember the compact with the League: this must be mutually destructive, an internecine clash. Such a fascinating game! And all to the glory of the League and the Dark Master....

  He smiled beneath his mask, but then he remembered and his mirth was short-lived: The presence. That aura that had left its trace with the butchered patrol. The same being the mysterious key suggested but could not declare.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Hell, Gonji thought as he rode, swatting at the flies that buzzed madly in the humidity....

  Why didn’t I just tell him I killed them in self-defense? Why did I bother perpetrating that stupid lie about finding them dead? Julian knows it’s a lie. Now what? Ride out, Gonji-san. Leave this place. You’re finished here. You’re going to die here in some stupid, ignoble way, that’s what. You’re on Julian’s death list for certain. An assassin’s bullet in the back, or—worse, maybe....

  He scanned the lowering sky. Thunderheads now piled up over the Carpathians, smothering the sun. The day waxed threatening. Ride out while you still—

  Wilf galloped toward him along the Street of Charity, pedestrians parting before his charge. He reined in beside Tora.

  “You heard about Strom, what he found?” Wilf asked breathlessly.

  “Hai, the little rodent,” Gonji spat. “So sorry, Wilfred-san, but your brother’s chatter has me in big trouble.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Gonji waved the question aside. “Ah, forget it. It may not even have been him. Enough people know. The dead brigands in the valley have returned to haunt me.”

  “What will you do?”

  Gonji blew out an exasperated breath and shook his head gravely. “Where does Tralayn live again?”

  Wilf brightened. “Then you’re staying!”

  “Well, we’ll see what the city has in mind anyway, neh?” He smiled. “You’re in better spirits now than you were earlier.”