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

by Rypel, T. C.

  She lay shaking in the pantry for what seemed a long time, but almost immediately the sense of oppression had lifted, for the presence was gone.

  * * * *

  Mord stiffened in the dungeon chamber, as if a bolt had skewered him. He seized up the psychically endowed key, a look of triumph firing his crow-black eyes: “So you’ve come to me....”

  He surged from the chamber, past the cells of puling, mindless half-human wretches, and up two flights of crumbling stairs, pushing through an iron-grated door that shrieked on arthritic hinges—

  “Guards! Turn out the garrison! We have an intruder!”

  The castle exploded with the tumult of shouted orders and stamping feet, jangling steel and the confused questions of the newly awakened.

  “Look—this man is dead!”

  Gasps and outcries. The corpse of a Llorm footman—the one who had passed Genya in her panicked flight.

  “The king! See to the king’s welfare!”

  Soldiers and civilians alike poured through the corridors toward Klann’s private chambers, lighting lamps and torches as they went. Others searched Castle Lenska from top to bottom, through every corridor and drum tower, through kitchens and larders and every cellar and dungeon and rat-infested subterranean cell, save for those only Mord knew of.

  Outside, the dreaded wyvern roused itself from sleep and shrilled at the storm as it banked around the castle spires and walls, gradually widening its radius of search. Two hundred mercenaries camped in the outer ward and beyond the moat on the piney slopes grumbled and cursed as they, too, joined the search in the heavy downpour.

  “What the hell we lookin’ for?”

  “This is crazy!”

  Tumo bellowed and kept pointing into the forest to the west. Retrieving his great spiked truncheon from under the canopy, he leaned it on an elephantine shoulder and pointed again, canine sounds and braying groans emanating from between his flaccid lips. He looked up to his master Mord, who stood atop the ramparts, gazing with a strange fixation into the forest. Beside him there was a frenzy of activity, one soldier babbling about the apparition he had seen but couldn’t stop, his dead partner being examined by an anxious group. A dagger still jutted from the dead man’s breast.

  “No, Tumo,” Mord ground in his murky voice. “Not now.” The sorcerer seemed deeply puzzled. He hefted the key in a gloved hand.

  At the king’s chambers: madness. The two sentries who guarded their king had been stabbed to death. No one had seen the assailant. King Klann leaned against the wall, unable to arrest the trembling that had begun when he had come out to see why his guards failed to respond to a command.

  “I saw him...,” Klann kept saying, distant and unsettling to those who listened. “I think I saw him. He’s—he’s showing me that he can destroy me whenever he wishes. He might have done so, if—if—”

  “Calm yourself, milord,” Lady Thorvald pleaded. “Let me help you into—”

  He pushed her hand away roughly. “What must I do to have security here?” he shouted in a cracked voice. “Sleep with a regiment at my bedside?!”

  He still displayed the effects of his horripilation; his face was pallid, his hair bristling.

  “Another dead sentry on the south middle curtain, but this man says he struck the intruder, sire!” came an officer’s voice.

  The babbling Llorm guard was pushed forward, his drenched face an almost comic fright mask. He was helmless and quaking.

  “Well—speak.”

  “I—I—I struck him, sire, slashed him as he went by.... He—he—Kirka, he stabbed Kirka, and then I sliced open his arm but...but then he was gone.”

  “You missed him, then, idiot.”

  “No, sire, I did hit him. See here—his blood.”

  Half-clad soldiers and civilians in nightshirts pressed forward to see the valiant sentry’s bloody sword, sighing and muttering in impressed tones.

  “I don’t want his blood, I want his corpse,” Klann railed.

  “Here, let me have that.” Mord pushed through the crowd and took the weapon. “Draw another from the armorer.”

  “You—Mord,” Klann cried in an accusing voice, pointing. “Where were you during all this? You’re supposed to be one step ahead of such unnatural attacks against me.”

  “It was I who raised the alarm, milord, having sensed the presence—”

  “A fat lot of good it did.” Klann still shook.

  “On the contrary, I succeeded in contacting the thing.” Gasps from the onlookers. “I was right in thinking it ought to be something which might aid us. I called to it, and it tried to come, but...somehow it was restrained. I don’t understand all about this being yet—”

  “Well, do something! Subjugate it, drive it away, destroy it, but do your job! We’ll not be threatened by the supernatural while you dare to call yourself a sorcerer in our employ.” Klann’s pallor had by now been replaced by a lurid flush. Mord bowed to him and departed with the sword.

  “Gorkin,” Klann said to his castellan, “get me a scribe.”

  “Milord?”

  “A scribe and a courier. I must see these people, go to them. First thing in the morning I want the message sent to Vedun. This has got to stop. We can’t live with this oppression, and they know—oh, yes, Gorkin, they know what it’s about!”

  A peal of thunder rumbled in the mountains like the drums of an advancing army, and Klann grabbed his head as the angry counsel of the Brethren rose until it filled his ears and clouded his vision. Lady Thorvald and General Gorkin and two or three retainers caught him as he swooned, guided him back into his chambers.

  “Garth...,” he muttered in his delirium. “We must speak with Garth....”

  * * * *

  Under the lambent glow of the lapping torch, Mord examined the sentry’s sword with eager eyes. The blood that dozens of people had marveled at moments before...was gone. And suddenly the simple weapon felt unsalutary, radiating a threat the likes of which he hadn’t known in centuries.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The training had been long and hard during the night, the militia grim. There were several incidents of lost temper and a general lack of harmony. Gonji knew the reason.

  Radetzky the foster had been caught trying to smuggle a pistol to the militia. Rushing through the streets toward the chapel with his concealed prize, he had had a chance encounter with a band of sharp-eyed mercenaries, who had been tipped off either by the over-cautious way he walked that morning or his instant flush of guilt upon being espied. No one was sure, and it didn’t matter. Radetzky had been beaten near the rostrum, kicked and battered, until his teeth lay loose all around him and he coughed up blood from a mouth that no longer resembled a mouth. And at the last they had loaded the gun and taunted him with its deadly promise. Then, just before Captain Sianno had arrived with intentions of stopping their brutality, one of them had blown a large hole through Radetzky’s forehead.

  He had told them nothing.

  Treated as Vedun’s first military casualty, the foster was buried in the catacombs in a somber ceremony.

  The new social order was becoming intolerable: The city seemed in a state of undeclared martial law since the Radetzky incident. Citizens were questioned and searched without cause at the whim of the occupation force, which led to a general escalation of aggression. Resistance met with brute force, which soon evolved into popular sport, whenever the mercenary troops could get away with it. And sport quickly led to other passionate pursuits: it was no longer safe for women to travel the streets unescorted. This, despite the fact that, as mercenary recruits straggled into the city to enlist with Klann, so also did women of easy virtue arrive in increasing numbers, word having traveled fast of money to be made in Vedun.

  Flavio’s dream was turning into a snake pit under his tortured gaze. And the militia, raised for the purpose of crushing the invaders who had descended like a horde of locusts, was anxious to flex its muscles. Whatever Klann’s true intentions for the province,
his noble Llorm regulars were now far outnumbered by the mercenary companies and had surrendered control of the city to them.

  Only three people still exerted an arresting influence over the mercenaries, with respect to their bullying and brutalizing of Vedun: Captain Sianno, commander of the crack Llorm garrison, who could not be everywhere at once, although he was committed to preserving the peace, as King Klann would have it. Julian, who could be cruel and sadistic when given even slight reason, but whose lust after the vacant Field Commander post prompted him also to court the king’s good graces by keeping Vedun in one piece. And Gonji, whose status was slipping fast as the free companions swelled their numbers and grew bolder.

  “Come on,” Gonji said as they slipped out of Tralayn’s house and into a relatively quiet dawn, “let’s take a ride and then gather the council. I’ve something I want to discuss with the rest of you.”

  Wilf and Garth agreed, though the smith was expected at the metal foundry and his son had work backed up at the forge. The storm had spent itself, the clouds having blown far to the east, molten now in the rising sun. Already many mercenaries were out patrolling the streets.

  “It’s not going to get any easier to sneak down to the catacombs,” Gonji observed. The night’s trainees had been cut by half their usual number, attributable to fears over the heightened vigilance of the invaders. “How many would you say they number by now, Garth?”

  The burly blacksmith shook his head, frowning quizzically. “Hard to say.”

  “Judging by what I’ve heard and seen,” Gonji advanced, “I’d say...six hundred, maybe. And they’ll continue to grow.”

  Wilf whistled tonelessly. “Well, when do we sweep them out of the way so that I can tackle Castle Lenska?”

  Gonji chuckled, and Garth clucked his tongue. “That’s never going to be necessary, Wilfred, whatever your glorious dreams,” the smith told his son. “Sooner or later she will find a way back to Vedun. She always gets what she wants, doesn’t she?”

  “Why do you hate her so?” Wilf asked.

  “We’ve been over this a thousand times. She’s not the girl for you. You can do better, believe me, if you’ll only—”

  As the Gundersens pursued their domestic debate, Gonji observed the day’s burgeoning activities, the furtive movements of the militiamen heading for the day-session training. The harvest was in, a good one despite the mysterious blight, and produce wagons laden to bursting joined with others filled with sundry goods ordered for the castle.

  They breakfasted at Wojcik’s Haven, where Lorenz joined them and passed along the encouraging news that there would be few shortages. Both the king and the city would survive the coming winter. Lorenz looked refreshed, having skipped the night’s training so that he might deal with the day’s anticipated heavy business at the Ministry.

  When they were mounting up to leave, Eduardo and Tiva’s little band of urchins accosted them.

  “Hey, samurai!” Eduardo called, rushing up to bow impressively. The others scurried over, and Gonji reached down to scoop Tiva into his arms.

  “Ohayo, little ones. Been keeping out of mischief?”

  “Never mind that,” Eduardo said. “I know something you’d like to know.”

  “Ah, so desu ka? What’s that?”

  “So sorry. Need money first,” Eduardo replied, fluttering his fingers, palm up.

  Gonji’s brow furrowed in mock animosity. “Ohhh. Gentlemen, I believe I’m being taken. But...all right.” The children grinned and jostled each other when Gonji set Tiva down to reach inside his kimono and extract a gold coin. They gasped in awe when they realized its value. “Uh-uh—” He withdrew the coin from the grasping Eduardo. “First tell me this valuable information.”

  “A man followed you all day yesterday.”

  “Eh? Is he around now?”

  “Sí, at the hostelry across the street. Don’t look now, wait till we go! He has a black beard and a pot helmet. He carries a sword and pistol. He watched your horses all the while you ate. Is it worth your money?”

  “Oh, very so. Hai, domo arigato, kiku-san.” He flipped the coin to Eduardo, and the children pranced off with their new-found wealth. “And take care of Tiva, scamp!”

  Gonji looked at Garth and Wilf. “Is he there?”

  “Ja,” Garth answered wearily.

  “Matter of days now for me,” Gonji said. “Maybe hours.... Let’s get the military council together for my proposal.”

  They headed for the Ministry. On the way they were attracted by a noisy argument in an alley off the Street of Hope. They steered toward the ring of shouting men to see whether any Vedunians were involved. Gonji cast Wilf a look that urged readiness when the sound of clashing steel emerged from the alley. Pulling up behind the bunched mercenaries, they saw at once that no innocents were threatened. Instead, two free companions had drawn arms over some disagreement. They had been gambling with dice. Gonji recognized one of them as Stanek, who bore under his lip the ugly scar of Julian’s slitting saber.

  Their swords whined and clanged, sparks flying as they dueled lustily but with unrefined technique. Every earsplitting clash would evoke a wince and a withdrawal from both men. Saber against schiavona. An interesting fight until—a freakish turn that drained them of hostility, then redirected it: Stanek’s vicious slash caught his opponent’s Italian-style blade on the flat of its forte, breaking it cleanly in half.

  “Hey! I just bought this god-cursed sword. What the hell kinda trash are they sellin’ as armament here?”

  The others pressed in, grumbling. Gonji, Garth, and Wilf wheeled their steeds and slowly clopped away from the alley.

  “Good workmanship,” Gonji said archly.

  “Ja, we’ve done our work too well, I fear,” Garth added.

  “Tell the swordsmiths at the foundry to raise a stink if they’re questioned. Make it sound like a rare accident, impurities in the steel. And tell Lorenz to be properly indignant if the soldier demands credit.”

  “That shouldn’t be too hard for my highbrow brother,” Wilf advanced caustically.

  “This just deepens my resolve about what must be done.” Gonji spurred Tora into a determined canter.

  A while later the three of them sat around the table in Flavio’s parlor along with the Elder, Roric Amsgard, and Michael Benedetto. Gonji made his proposal:

  “Zarnesti. We’re going to free Zarnesti.”

  “Cui bono? To whose benefit?” Flavio protested.

  Garth agreed. “Much too reckless an enterprise.”

  “Nothing we could do could be considered reckless any longer,” Gonji said, “and as for who would benefit—Zarnesti, of course, for starters. I was there. I know what the situation is. It would help erase my guilt over what I did there in the name of misbegotten duty. And most importantly the militia needs to be blooded—so sorry, but a small foray is necessary to test their mettle and to fire their confidence. Garth, how would you rate the militia’s chances against the occupation force?”

  The smith spread his hands on the table, seemed to slump under a ponderous weight. “Not good, I’m afraid. There are promising individuals...some of the unit drills are looking up, but....”

  “You don’t know,” Gonji concluded, “and neither do I. Or you, Roric, and that’s as good a reason as any to find out.”

  “Sounds dangerous,” Michael said. He was in the grip of some inner struggle. “Inflammatory, I mean, to Klann. What might he do in retaliation?”

  Gonji snorted. “What hasn’t he allowed already in your city? Who’ll be beaten to death next? Whose woman will be assaulted, eh? We must prepare for the worst. No help will be forthcoming from the baron’s allies, we all know that. The baron himself appears only halfheartedly committed to the entire enterprise. That’s bad. And things are getting tighter for me, also. My time here is running out. I’ve already had to take steps to buy more time. Julian demanded additional intelligence. All I could come up with was to caution him to watch Phlegor and his men—”


  They looked surprised and not a little hostile.

  Even Wilf’s eyebrows raised at the disclosure. “That wasn’t very charitable,” he said.

  “Hai,” Gonji sighed, “that’s why I had to do it myself. None of you would have. So sorry, but Phlegor is planning something, judging by what we’ve heard, neh? The wrong action at the wrong time....” He shook his head somberly. “And it got Julian off my back briefly. But he doesn’t trust me. He’s having me watched now—”

  “I still feel a bit sorry for Phlegor,” Roric broke in with his gentle-strong voice. “Shouldn’t he be warned?”

  “Do that and I’d wager he panics and tries something crazy. Iye. If he plans action independently of the council, then I’m afraid you must begin to think of him as militarily expendable.” He paused and lowered his eyes, a grim set to his lips. When no one spoke, he went on. “The poor weapons they forge for Klann have already come to light, also. Only a matter of time before they begin testing the pieces they buy from Vedun. Things are mounting against us. And so I propose a foray into Zarnesti. It may be the remotest outpost, so the chances of repercussion are slim. There would be no reason to suspect Vedun. Twenty-five or thirty volunteers from the militia should be all we’d need.... That’s all I have to say on it for now. Shall we vote?”

  There was silence for a space, then a few throat clearings.

  “I’m inclined to agree with Gonji,” Roric advanced.

  “That’s two ‘ayes’,” Wilf observed enthusiastically.

  “Ja, and one against,” Garth followed at once. “There’s no need for this sort of thing until we’ve had a chance to clear the air with Klann.”

  “I agree that that effort should be made, mein Freund,” Gonji noted, “although I can’t share your optimism about the result. Why haven’t you made the attempt already? I should think you’d be the one person from Vedun that Klann would see.”

  Garth looked stung. “I shall do so,” he responded defensively.

  “Well, you all know what my vote would be, if it counted anymore,” Flavio said with uncommon ire. They all dropped their gazes in shared embarrassment over the Elder’s loss of influence in the current state of affairs. Flavio called in a servant, whom he sent to the cavern to obtain Baron Rorka’s vote on the matter after a careful briefing. Another servant entered with wine and cheese, and they whittled away the anxious time, debating the proposal.