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

by Rypel, T. C.

  * * * *

  On the first day of training about two hundred citizens, mostly men, appeared in the cavern in a sporadic, chaotic flow and signed on with the militia. The first session was spent learning names; assigning translators for various unilingual groups (whose ethnocentricity would prove a nagging organizational problem); establishing rules of military courtesy and discipline (another hard-won battle, except among the former military men, who embraced it enthusiastically); assigning equipment and military specialties; completing the crude, cobbled-together training devices; performing agonizing conditioning exercises; and absorbing basic words of command, courtesy, and direction, some in Hungarian and German, but most, on Gonji’s insistence, in Japanese.

  The second day, due to aches and injuries, exhaustion and disillusionment, the trainees’ number had diminished to approximately one hundred and fifty, counting the leaders and Rorka’s knights. But by the third day, their number had again increased to two hundred, and a daily regimen was established. Now the lines of fencers clashed and cracked their wooden weapons together, more and more turning up at every session wearing gauntlets to guard against the earlier days’ frequent hand injuries, while archers launched their volleys of whickering arrows under the head-shaking gazes of Gerhard and Gray bowmen. And squads of men groaned and complained as they stretched and scaled timbers and pulled themselves up ropes, only to descend again and be required to wrestle or run or respond to sham sneak attacks or try their skills at another new weapon, at last coming full circle to their weapon specialty for a more complex and wearying session.

  Occasionally the valley entrance sentry would clang the alarm tocsin, relaying the message that a Klann patrol had been sighted along the southern road, and the training clamor would come to an abrupt halt as men grabbed for their weapons and hugged the musty ground in silence, each wondering whether the real moment of first engagement would so ice his spine and trigger the gooseflesh and cold sweat that now tingled him. But it passed. They returned to their rigors. But not without complaint and curses and stiff joints and teeth-gritting hatred for Klann and nervous stomachs that erupted in outbreaks of vomiting. And loathing and disgust for the training by some, who hawked and spat insolently to hear new orders being called out by Gonji, who had been ascribed the blame for the design of their toil.

  Gonji knew their minds. He understood the stages through which their thinking must pass, enduring their silent hatred and behind-the-back sneers and insulting gestures. For he knew that he must abide it all with dignity, and as they distanced themselves from him, so would they conversely bond themselves as a unit, dependent on one another, and fighting as one.

  * * * *

  “It won’t work,” Rorka said flatly, hands clasped behind him. He watched wincingly as men engaging swiveling quintains failed to block or duck in time and were battered by the heavy beams. Beyond them, a motley cavalry unit charged, bellowing, at staked man-forms, slashed at them as their line thundered past. But some guided their steeds too wide for fear of colliding and swung at empty air; others reached too far and their momentum and the horses’ motion tossed them from their saddles to crash to earth, dislocating shoulders and elbows and cracking skulls.

  “Dr. Verrico!” sprang the outcries for the overworked surgeon.

  “Your timetable is all wrong,” Rorka elaborated. “Time is our ever-present enemy. Look at them.”

  Gonji mopped his glistening face and snapped his wet hand at his side. He set his face stoically, but his right hand squeezed the hilt of Spine-cleaver, as his spare katana had long ago been dubbed.

  “So sorry, Rorka-san, but time is everyone’s enemy, Klann included. The sooner we attack him, the fewer mercenaries he’ll have in his hire. It’s up to us to make proper plans for the uprising, to train them as best we can in as short a time as possible, and then use their training and their anger against the marauders while their blood runs hot.”

  “Oh, it will run, all right,” Rorka said wryly, turning away. “It will run hot and red.... Festina lente, Gonji—make haste slowly....”

  Gonji’s lip quivered. Stupid lazy old bastard! Festina lente, my ass! What do you think this province will look like next spring? Picked clean like desert-bleached bones. And it’s all your fault, you—ahh! Forget it. Control yourself. The baron is still rightful ruler of the province....

  Gonji’s relationship with Rorka and his surviving two and twenty gray-surcoated knights had been strained. They bore him great rancor over his quick accession to his lofty command position and responded grudgingly to his orders or suggestions. And he and Rorka shared a mutual dislike. But lately he had noticed that the inevitable bonding that cements men with a common purpose, especially a deadly one, had broken the glacial gulf between him and a few of the Grays.

  If only Rorka would commit himself wholeheartedly, stop disagreeing with Gonji’s every suggestion, quit appealing to the healing efficacy of dear, sweet time as if he expected divine intervention that would obviate all their efforts....

  * * * *

  “Pay him no heed,” Paille called over from the cavern niche where he worked.

  Gonji ambled over to the alcove where the artist stooped under a ring of blinding torches, the samurai’s eyes gradually adjusting themselves to the orange glare.

  Paille wore a ragged bandanna in his hair. His paint- and sweat-stained tunic had the arms torn off unevenly at the shoulders. He reeked of clay and oil and cheap wine.

  “His noble pantaloons are full from fear of losing his exalted position once the rebellion has placed Vedun in the hands of the people,” Paille said without looking up.

  “Perhaps,” Gonji replied distractedly, watching Paille’s talented hands ply their delicate work, “but I’m afraid we need him. And I think he fears his return to leadership as much as—what’s that?”

  “The mercenary garrison,” Paille answered, moving the model into place, “near the soothsayer’s house. See how easily they might be squeezed into the southwest corner of the city, cut off from their fellows?”

  “Mmm.” Gonji scanned the mock-up with fascination. Paille’s in-progress miniature of the city and the castle was a source of endless interest and conversation. The alcove was often crowded with the curious, who couldn’t pass by without peeking in to see how the diorama was shaping up. It was a marvel of clay and wood and stone, and Paille hadn’t been able to resist supplying brilliant touches of detail, even to the point of adding tiny human figures. Here, it was, that the military council would plan tactics.

  “And look here—” Paille said, holding up the new pieces, “the calthrops and spiked barriers you requested. Don’t look like much, do they?”

  “Not in miniature,” Gonji agreed, a frown furrowing his brow, “but in the field I’ve seen them take their toll of horses and men.”

  “Where do you want them placed?”

  “In the walled-in lanes,” Gonji said, pointing. “We lure pockets of soldiers into the alleys, then yank them or roll them into place. For a short time the alleys become effective killing grounds. Until the desperate find a way to scrabble over the bodies of the unfortunate.” He smiled thinly, without humor. Angry shouts sprang up across the broad cavern, and he turned to go.

  “Oh, Gonji—before you go, tell me what you think.” Paille bounded over to a low bench whereon lay his tools and raw materials, plus paper, pen, and ink. He snatched up a stained and buckled sheaf of papers and thrust them at the samurai.

  Gonji looked at the top sheet, which had written upon it in Paille’s elaborate French script: The Deathwind of Vedun Epic of Alain Paille.

  “Go ahead, read something of it.”

  “It’s French?” Gonji queried, making a sour face.

  “Of course, mon frère!”

  Gonji sniffed and turned to view the howling cavalrymen who pounded past in a mock skirmish.

  “Later, neh?” he said, handing the manuscript back to the poet and re-sheathing Spine-cleaver. “I don’t like the title, tho
ugh. Where did you get it?”

  “You suggested it! With your Deathwind quest, and all. Only I’ve interpreted it to mean the destined Wind of Death that will sweep the world clean of the decadent aristocracy and the tyranny they promote. And it all begins in Vedun....” A faraway vision of social upheaval twinkled in the Frenchman’s eye.

  “Iye,” Gonji said, shaking his head. “I don’t like it. Why don’t you call it...Red Blade from the East—?”

  Gonji strode off, a smile perking his lips, leaving Paille to stand, hands on hips, gazing after him.

  “Well, if that isn’t the most pompous, conceited—!”

  * * * *

  The training leaders worked long and arduous shifts, many overlapping their working hours for smooth transitions. Without the presence of Rorka and his Gray knights, it would have been impossible to pursue the simultaneous training in multiple warfare skills. But even these doughty souls were relieved, given the grueling double-shift training day of some twenty-hours’ duration, when they were able to turn up trainees sufficiently skilled and trustworthy to assume some of the tasks of leadership.

  The knights were referred to as rytier (knight), tanito (teacher), or katona (soldier); Roric Amsgard and Karl Gerhard chose to be called Lehrer (teacher); and Garth, in his unassuming fashion, insisted on being referred to by name.

  But no one was more feared or respected, if only with sulky or grudging acquiescence, than the leader who was referred to as sensei.

  Gonji worked like a demon. His dynamic presence and surpassing skill with bugei—martial arts—caused him to swiftly become the final authority on all matters of training and tactics. He moved semi-permanently into the caverns, working straight through most shifts, avoiding the streets of the city unless accompanied, for he wished to stave off Julian’s demands of fresh intelligence for his money. It was rare to find Gonji asleep or otherwise indisposed to the needs of the militia; few knew when or where he slept. And by the third or fourth day, the heavy regimen was taking its toll of him. His eyes were red and puffy, dark circles under them declaring the fatigue he refused to admit. And so it was that he studied the militia as carefully as did the other leaders, anxious to discover trustworthy subordinates who might relieve some of his burden. Not surprisingly, as a by-product, he learned a great deal about the men who would fight by his side, if the worst came.

  Roric and Garth were Gonji’s staunchest allies on the military council, his bulwark against Rorka and the brooding Michael when policy had to be decided. In addition, they delivered all he asked on the training ground. Roric, the ex-Austrian cavalryman, proved a solid, though unspectacular, exponent of falchion and pole-arm. The tall, uncomely butcher’s steadiness and surety with weapons basics, coupled with an admirable calm and patience in directing his neophyte warriors, commanded him respect. He possessed a gift for dealing with hotheads and bridling outbreaks of temper. Of course, Gonji sometimes reflected in amusement, the jagged scar that cleft his jaw probably helped somewhat. Nor did the one or more vicious-looking, well-trained dogs that frequently accompanied him diminish his effectiveness.

  Garth Gundersen was ever the gentle-strong enigma. The suspicions of his friendship with Klann had fled before the dazzle of his weapons skill: Double arms were his specialty: twin broadswords, sword-and-buckler, axe-and-shield, shield-and-halberd, axe-and-sword—Garth was a throwback to a nobler time, a time before gunpowder had popularized the easy, cowardly kill. Garth’s skill with the francisca, a Frankish axe weighted for throwing, was remarkable; he could split a rail or shatter a melon at thirty yards. His province was power techniques with the heavier close-quarter weapons, and most of the city’s bigger men could be found learning halberd, battle-axe, and two-handed broadsword from Garth. The smith was instrumental in helping Gonji teach craftsmen to use the tools of their trades as weapons. Under their tutelage Peter Foristek soon wielded the scythe and pruning hook in a manner that was something to behold. And one day, during ju-jutsu—empty-hand training—Garth and Gonji engaged in a wrestling bout that had the trainees talking and shaking their heads fondly for many shifts afterward. But for all the popular smith’s assistance in preparing the militia, he still maintained that he could not raise a sword in battle again.

  As for Wilfred, there was no question that the young smith ached for a chance to assault the castle. His jump on most of the others in fencing skill, plus his earnest desire to learn the ways of ken-jutsu swordsmanship and the tenets of the bushido code, quickly established him as Gonji’s second-in-command. Gonji declared on the first day of training that he had decided to award his spare katana, Spine-cleaver, to the trainee who best embraced the principles and practices of the bugei he would teach. From the start, Wilf lustily entered the lists. The immediate upshot was that he was dubbed “the junior Japper” by his and Gonji’s enemies and detractors. Stung by the insult, he nonetheless surged ahead with his training. But a certain distancing between Wilf and Gonji became apparent to those close to them. No longer did Wilf associate with the samurai in the fawning, tagalong way he had earlier. Used to being a leader and a loner, Wilf now manifested a more formal, equal-to-equal relationship with Gonji. He trained hard, displayed skill, anger, and tenacity in equal measures. And when the training was done, he worked dutifully in the smith shop; and longed for his Genya; and planned and prayed and wrought in his mind an endless gallery of savage scenarios he might have to survive in order to see her returned to him. Wilf’s few close friends noticed his new moodiness and introversion. Some tried to pry him out of it, largely without success.

  Jiri Szabo, for instance.... Jiri was a young metal founder and probably Vedun’s all-around finest athlete. A well-built, though short, tawny-haired man with sincere blue eyes and a ready smile, Jiri would likely one day supplant Garth as the city’s most popular fellow, once the beloved smith had passed on. Earnest and guileless, ever more concerned with the feelings of an opponent he had beaten than with the thrill of his own triumph, eminently teachable and seemingly fearless, Jiri became the butt of Gonji’s oft-repeated jest: “Szabo, what dirty things are you thinking about—right now?!” The samurai’s sudden narrow-eyed focus on Szabo, coupled with the man’s red-faced innocence, never failed to elicit hearty laughs. On foot, no one was faster. Only Aldo Monetto could keep up with him in climbing a rope or scaling a wall. He took to ken-jutsu eagerly and learned well. Jiri’s betrothed—a sweet lass named Greta, who plied the weaving looms—often worked in the cavern in support of the training. The smiles and winks they sneaked at each other during breaks evoked much kidding, some of it plainly envious. Jiri had everything to live for. “It would be nice to keep the ones like him alive,” Rorka observed once. Gonji had been irked by the baron’s unnecessary caution, for he knew only too well that he was preparing Jiri for a very good chance at young death.

  Lorenz Gundersen proved his father’s match at springing unexpected facets to his background. Somewhere in the course of business ventures, the priggish Executor of the Exchequer had acquired passable adroitness as a rapier fencer. He moved surely and unflinchingly from wooden to steel blades, practicing vigorously, now and again even breaking a sweat. But he remained an opponent of Gonji’s methods, particularly in regard to military discipline (degrading, in so motley an army) and security (insulting, implemented by an outsider), and when Gonji advised him that rapier alone, a weapon designed only for thrusting, would leave him ill equipped to deal with armored opponents, Lorenz countered cavalierly: “Finding the chinks—isn’t that what it’s all about?” Gonji shrugged and wished him happy chink-hunting.

  Vlad Dobroczy showed considerable skill with the sword, was a fine horseman, and possessed a mean streak that would prove useful in combat. He had only one drawback—a hatred of Gonji, perhaps based in bigotry, perhaps on Gonji’s friendship with his longtime rival Wilf. But it vented itself in insolence and discord, particularly when he was required to take orders from Wilf, and Gonji knew that he could tolerate such negative attitudes for on
ly so long.

  Paolo Sauvini, the wagoner, exhibited another sort of insolence. Sullen and withdrawn, a rather anti-social man who seemed widely disliked, Paolo had tried since Gonji’s arrival to engage the samurai’s attention through boorish staring matches. Now during the training of the militia his yearning for recognition had taken a new tack: anything for attention. Determined to excel with the sword, he hedged by pairing himself off with opponents he knew he could handle, sometimes coming on too aggressively in supposedly controlled practice bouts. He volunteered for everything; always was either the very first or the very last to respond to an order. After three days of censure by Gonji—the last time for bullying Klaus, the most easily victimized of the trainees—Paolo changed his concentration to the bow, where he performed quite well under Gerhard’s direction. But Gonji frequently caught Paolo’s hateful black eyes glowering from across the cavern, and he finally thought he understood why. As the top man, Gonji was the competition. The glory of soldiering success burned in those smoldering eyes of Paolo’s, and until it became more important to him to be a soldier than to posture as one, he would be just another target for Klann’s troops.

  Karl Gerhard and Aldo Monetto were fine leaders and splendid exemplars of their specialties: Monetto with his biller’s axe, conditioning techniques, and what Gonji called karumi-jutsu—techniques of agility in jumping, climbing, and dodging; and, especially, Gerhard with his magnificent longbow, which required four men to string. Under his guidance several fine archers were emerging. Each day the targets were moved back, yet roughly the same number of hits were recorded. And to watch Gerhard sight and quick-fire at the mobile target was a favorite sport in itself, always evoking whistles and cheers. Yet separating these two argumentative best-of-friends had done little to quell their wearisome bickering. Each day one would suggest a way to improve the other’s teaching method, and the battle was joined. But their arguing was based on friendly competition, on the desire to intensify mutual respect and esteem.