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

by Rypel, T. C.

  What cemented the friendship of Berenyi and Nagy, no one could say.

  Stefan Berenyi and Nikolai Nagy were hostlers at the Provender. That was the extent of their similarity. Berenyi was the town comic, a man of twenty-two with long, flowing hair and twinkling hazel eyes whose lips were ever twitching at some anticipated jest, usually provided by him and often at Nagy’s expense. Berenyi was the sort who always went for the cheap laugh, the low note of humor; the one irreverent voice in the otherwise polite crowd. A gifted mimic of voices and mannerisms, he kept his fellows in stitches, not always during the most appropriate moments. Yet he was the type one could not easily get angry with, and in any case there was no use in wasting one’s anger—in seconds Berenyi could dispel the mood with still another asinine jest or foolish posture. Gonji decided that his brand of nonsense was badly needed. In Japan warriors masked their fears with faces of stone; in Europe they hid them behind laughter.

  When Stefan unveiled his imitation of Gonji, and was prodded into performing it for the samurai, Gonji was not sure whether to break his ribs or crack a smile. But the others were already chuckling at the samurai’s barely stifled mirth, and Gonji joined in heartily. It was the first warm, boisterous laugh they ever shared as a group. Berenyi had helped form a valuable bond that day. And he possessed one other staple of the vulgar comic’s repertoire: he could belch and fart at will. If Alain Paille was Vedun’s intellectual jester, then Berenyi was its clown prince.

  To everyone but Nagy.

  Nick Nagy was over twice Berenyi’s age. Gray-haired and squinty-eyed, Nagy was a fist-shaking grouch who never failed to tell his tormenting partner where he could shove his latest jest—which he was quite probably the target of. Still strong, with thick, gnarled hands and wiry arms, Nagy trained harder than most of his young peers and refused to recount to anyone but his wife the toll these long agonizing days were exacting of him. Nagy’s two children were grown, married, and departed from Vedun, and the Nagys were accustomed to having Stefan for dinner several nights a week. It was said that only Magda Nagy was exempt from Berenyi’s jests, and in his less charitable moments Nick would call Stefan “the kid we had who died but then came back.” Berenyi and Nagy could be vicious to each other, but as Paille observed, it was a “mutually salutary hatred.”

  Michael Benedetto presented Gonji a special problem. Ever Gonji’s antagonist on the military council, ever the devil’s advocate when the samurai would propose a new training technique or introduce a fresh tactic into their plans against Klann, Michael occupied the unenviable position of the least skilled of the leaders in use of arms. He further suffered embarrassment at being repeatedly remanded to bokken training from the more dangerous and demanding steel blades. The complete Renaissance man, Michael had been trained with the schiavona, the Venetian broadsword, during his education in Italy. He knew he was superior in skill to some of those Gonji had promoted ahead of him. And in his confusion, his rancor for the oriental increased.

  But Gonji had good reason—for Michael was sword-shy. The council Elder’s protege showed fine coordination, speed, and balance; his thrusts and slashes were crisp and economical, his parries sure, his ripostes and combination attacks swift and clever. But he flinched under attack once restraints were removed and the bouts became freestyle. He did well enough against classically schooled fencing styles but tensed up and fell back, his form eroding, against a wild flailer—precisely what he’d be facing in many a mercenary. So Gonji was hard on him, sending him back again and again to wooden practice weapons, knowing full well the importance of keeping him alive, not only inasmuch as he was the city’s pride and joy but also because of Gonji’s own guilt. For he knew that Michael sensed the samurai’s attraction to his wife. Sometimes Gonji would respectfully suggest that Michael switch his concentration to the bow, but the councilman would adamantly insist on staying with the sword, the elegant weapon of command. And always it seemed that when Gonji had occasion to embarrass Michael with a criticism, Lydia would be there, cleansing a wound or serving a beverage or repairing an item of equipment. She’d send Michael a nod and a gentle smile of encouragement, which he’d answer with a scowl.

  Gonji was approaching his surfeit with this angry young Italian. In his bleaker moods Gonji would resolve to let him have his head, to allow him to rush bull-headedly to his date with the executioner’s blade.

  To leave his fetching wife a widow.

  * * * *

  And then there was Klaus.

  “Owwww!”

  Gerhard hefted the quiver of shafts and ambled over to the firing line, where a knot of archers, including Berenyi, stifled snickers at his approach. Klaus stood shaking his hand.

  “Klaus, what’s the problem?” Gerhard asked.

  “Hurt my thumb on the string, Karl,” the lumpish Klaus replied.

  “Call me ‘Lehrer.’ Here comes Gonji.”

  “Oh—I’m sorry, Ka—I mean Lehrer. I keep forgetting.” Klaus was Berenyi’s favorite schlemihl, the easy butt of his sometimes cruel jokes. A dimwitted fellow with unkempt wheat-shock hair and a pointless frazzle of near-invisible mustache, physical accomplishments always came hard for him. But he tried, and Providence had outfitted him with the patience of the social pariah. Ever sincere. Ever on the outside trying annoyingly hard to qualify as a peer. Ever the last in line.

  Gonji strode over, a long, vicious-looking halberd leaning on his shoulder, to narrowly regard the bunch who now strung bows with businesslike chatter and very straight faces.

  “Klaus, who told you to put the archer’s ring on your bow hand?” Gerhard asked, knowing the answer. “It goes on the string hand, to protect your thumb.”

  “Stefan did,” Klaus said vapidly, pointing to Berenyi.

  Gerhard and Gonji looked at each other, then at Berenyi, who affected a defensive mask. “I’m sure I didn’t,” he replied. “Klaus, I told you it goes on that hand.”

  “Berenyi, go load quivers,” Gerhard said flatly.

  “Now, Klaus,” Gonji said, directing with gestures, “let’s try again. Nock your arrow—rotate over your head as you inhale and puuuuullll—now you’re going to sight your target as you arc downw—”

  Twaanngg.

  “Look out!”

  The clothyard shaft zanged into the cavern roof overhead, clacking sharply and lancing down toward the massed archers.

  “Watch out!” someone yelled as they scrambled, laughing.

  “Have a care!” Baron Rorka cried from halfway across the cavern. “Hit a stalactite just so and it will crush your skulls!”

  They sorted themselves out, and Gonji and Gerhard separated Klaus from the rest.

  “Really sorry, sensei, but I couldn’t hold it—”

  “Never mind that now,” Gonji said. “Listen, Klaus, maybe there’s another weapon for you. What sort of tools do you use in your trade? What do you do?”

  “I make buckles,” Klaus answered with simple pride.

  “Buckles,” Gonji echoed, crestfallen. He sighed.

  “Can I try again?”

  “Eh, Klaus,” Gerhard cut in, “why don’t you push the mobile target awhile—and keep your head down!”

  “Ja, Lehrer, whatever you say.” Klaus padded off dutifully. From behind he seemed shaped like the chapel bell.

  Gonji looked at Gerhard, who stood shaking his head in perplexity.

  * * * *

  (excerpt from the Deathwind of Vedun epic of Alain Paille:)

  “...there was good cheer and warmth of spirit in the catacombs where the Warriors of Vedun strengthened their wills and fired their thews in harmony and camaraderie, for it was by their unity of purpose that they would fulfill their age-old destiny to wrest the Soul of Mankind from the shackles of tyranny....”

  * * * *

  Wilf parried Vlad’s bokken aside sharply, and the farmer closed with him, slamming into him, chest-to-chest. Grabbing one of his wrists, he forced Wilf’s wooden sword high over his head. They grunted and cursed, teeth grit
ted in mutual contempt. Then suddenly Vlad elbowed Wilf hard in the face, snapping his head to the side.

  Wilf growled and dropped his bokken. With a shrill kiyai he smashed a short, straight right into Vlad’s jaw, then charged into him, bowling him over.

  “Halt! Break it up!” Roric commanded, rushing over.

  They were pulled apart, panting and glowering, a trickle of blood issuing from Wilf’s nose.

  “Let’s save that for Klann, all-recht?” Roric advised, tapping them both with his heavy falchion. He extracted a curt nod from each of them and turned away. Before he had taken two steps, Dobroczy launched himself at Wilf and the pair were on the ground again, pounding each other and swearing.

  * * * *

  William Eddings braced himself. His turn would be next. Gonji reached the man next to him and glared at him with those oriental devil’s eyes that bored into a man’s soul. Eddings looked to his left. His brother John smiled and proffered a tiny head bob of encouragement, and in that instant the mad Jappo’s shriek penetrated clear down to his bowels. There was a wicked smacking of wood, and Eddings felt his knees turn to jam as the man on the right parried with a two-handed overhead motion.

  Eddings’ heart thudded in his ears, and his breath whistled through his nostrils. The Japanese spoke to the man who had parried, whether words of criticism or praise, Eddings could not tell and didn’t care. He would be next.

  Jesus-Mary-Joseph, all I ever bloody well wanted was peace of mind and a little private space to— And then the Jappo was staring at him. He was vaguely aware of the interpreter who had eased up on the periphery of his vision.

  “Yoi-suru—ready!”

  Holy Mother of God....

  “Eeyiiiii!”

  Eddings’ face contorted, and his bokken flashed upward.

  “Unhh!” he cried—he had missed the parry. A sharp pain jolted his shoulder, but it subsided in seconds. The samurai’s ferocious blow had somehow mystically ended in no more than a cautionary tap.

  But, Holy Mother Church—this bastard meant business....

  Then the samurai was speaking to him in German, and when he had finished the interpreter took over.

  “Eh...the sensei says that...so sorry, but you are quite dead. Don’t freeze up. Relax. Empty your mind of conscious thought. You must not only make your parry, but you must be loose enough to complete the circle with a blow in reply. Practice....”

  Eddings trembled all over. Bloody madmen, he thought. All of them. Crazy, if they think I’m ever really going to fight against real soldiers with real swords. Or that monster dragon that flew out of some bedlamite’s delirium. That’ll be the day when I’ll dare that thing’s flaming shit and spittle. Not me, not William of Lancashire....

  * * * *

  Dobroczy stamped forward, his broadsword held in two-handed middle guard. He described a figure-eight of steel that brought a confused, weak parry from Michael, whose form crumbled as his eyes began to follow the whirling swordpoint. Then Vlad feinted a lunge at his helmed head and followed with a short, arcing slash to the left. Michael’s schiavona twisted downward awkwardly as he went for the fake, his arm curling uselessly out of position in his desperate fear of being hit. And Vlad’s swift circular slash to the right thudded against Michael’s heavily padded jack, knocking the wind out of him.

  The protege fell to one knee, holding his ribs, the schiavona’s point digging into the rocky ground.

  “Sesshoku—touch!” Gonji’s command that ended the match echoed through the cavern.

  Several men pressed forward to come to Michael’s aid, but he threw down his helm and waved them off angrily.

  Vlad walked up to him. “Sorry, Michael,” he said softly. But the Elder’s protege said nothing.

  “Miko-san,” Vlad heard the Japanese say over his shoulder, “so sorry, but your form still needs work. Back to the bokken, dozo. Dobroczy—to the quintains.”

  “Da...sensei,” Vlad replied, injecting all the venom he could muster into the infidel’s title. Why in hell did he have it in for Michael? He wasn’t as bad as some of the swordsmen who stayed with the steel weapons. Why did he have to keep on running him down like that?

  And in front of his wife.

  * * * *

  By the sixth day there were over three hundred trainees on the register. Council Elder Flavio and Milorad Vargo dropped in that day to appraise the training. They strolled about with folded arms, trying to look politely interested, but the strain on Flavio was showing in his stooped walk and the fresh pain lines that etched his brow, the corners of his eyes. He bore the onus of shattered ideals valiantly, but not without effect.

  The relationship of Flavio and Gonji had grown strained. They had already come to grips once over Gonji’s insistence on tight security, and Flavio vigorously opposed the brother-against-brother implication in Gonji’s urging that needless fraternization with Klann’s troops should be reported. Nor was he overly fond of the records of unusual or unnecessary traffic said to be kept by Old Gort, the gatekeeper, and others whom Gonji declined to name.

  “Very sorry, my master, but this is preparation for war, if necessary, and I’ve seen too many campaigns left in heartbreaking ruin by treachery,” Gonji told him.

  “And if there is potential for such treachery in Vedun,” Flavio replied defiantly, “then this is not the Vedun I founded, and hence is not worth fighting for.”

  And Gonji had again found himself admiring the man’s idealism greatly. But now there was another point of contention between them: Gonji’s claim that the training ground had been compromised by a carnival atmosphere. Non-combatants were everywhere in evidence. The women who tended wounds and aided with equipment and refreshments were needed, but now there were many who came only to be entertained. The families of Rorka’s men had moved underground, and sometimes children would be underfoot or blundering into dangerous places. Roric’s dogs had seemingly invited their friends, and even some of the men who had eschewed joining the militia now shamelessly came to the catacombs to snicker and jeer. Most notable among these were Strom Gundersen and Boris Kamarovsky. Gonji’s patience with these people was approaching its limit.

  Changes were made. The dogs were banned, and the knights’ families were moved back to the city, with daily visiting privileges. So far, so good. The first move Gonji made that raised any real opposition was the military training of the women.

  “Hey, Nick!” Magda Nagy called as she emerged from the torchlit grotto into the cavern proper. “Better watch it, next time you come home cockeyed!”

  She lunged forward aggressively with her poniard for emphasis, and those who understood Hungarian brayed and kidded Nagy mercilessly, Berenyi leading the jesters. Nick Nagy growled something at her that was drowned out by the laughter, his tangled and matted gray hair bristling like crabgrass as he tore off his burgonet helm.

  By the second day of women’s training, despite a torrent of protests on all sides, more than fifty women had begun to learn small-blade defensive skills against assault. While some broke into self-conscious giggling spates to be involved in so masculine an endeavor, and others frankly doubted that they could ever kill a human being, most women grimly agreed that should their children be threatened or their men fall, they would be grateful for the deadly knowledge. And so, with a prayer for merciful exemption and moral guidance—composed by Greta—beginning each session, they learned to employ and conceal dirk and misericorde, dagger and stiletto.

  A tall, statuesque Germanic woman of Swedish extraction, named Hildegarde, came to Gonji one day and demanded that such women as desired be allowed to train with more offensive weapons. Many men scoffed, but Gonji recounted to them the tale of Itagaki, a legendary female samurai, whose skill with the halberd, which Gonji called the naginata, was unparalleled. In the climactic battle of her brilliant career, she led a greatly outnumbered garrison against an army, dispatching scores of her enemies before succumbing.

  So Hildegarde had her way, joining with Garth
in learning the pole-arm. An extremely strong woman, and absolutely fearless, she displayed a gift for aggressiveness, and men soon treated her as an equal in the arts of war, overlooking the disarming fact that she was endowed with the sort of feminine ripeness that caused many of them to avert their eyes in intimidation and embarrassment. Gonji was fond of calling her “she of stout heart and mighty breast.” And she in retort, referring to their shared Scandinavian heritage through Gonji’s Norwegian mother, dubbed him “Gonji-Gunnar, the half-breed Viking.”

  Gonji was immensely fond of her and deeply proud and respectful of her skill at arms.

  * * * *

  Some of the women took up the bow. Among them was Helena, who acquitted herself splendidly on the archery field. Her father, a Polish archer who had died in the field, had instructed her well, and her turn at the targets was a popular event in the catacombs. Whether out of pity for her affliction or genuine affection for her petite loveliness and spunk, the deaf-mute girl seemed to occupy a special place in the heart of Vedun. It was for this reason that Gonji regarded her archery involvement with relief. He was beginning to find her presence discomfiting.

  Helena aroused in Gonji a complex blend of feelings he found as difficult to deal with as they were to define. His intense desire to be with a woman had to be restrained by his promise to Flavio that he would uphold the law of the land; the taking of pleasure-women was forbidden, and duty decreed that he acquiesce, though he at times doubted Flavio truly expected him to. Of late, however, he had been able to sublimate his passions in the rigors of the exhaustive training.

  But whenever Helena’s mother would allow her to descend into the cavern to aid in support of the militia, the girl would follow Gonji to attend on his needs. Doe-eyed and artless, the coyness that typified romantic game-playing wholly alien to her, she would dote on him incessantly. At once attracted and repelled, Gonji felt oddly guilty, nervous and irritable, over the conflicting feelings she aroused. He didn’t like the silly tittering of the other young women, the reproving glances some aimed at Helena. And most of all he resented the cold stares of certain of the men. He had no wish to violate their pet innocent and the rare flower they cherished so—the female equivalent, the thought occurred to him, of Michael Benedetto. And I don’t need any more distrust of me among the militia.... But I’m a man, and I have my needs, and so what am I to do about her? Cholera....