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

by Rypel, T. C.

  Halfway around the third level’s girdling main corridor, the obvious—so readily arrested under stress—occurred to her. Why not simply call out Lottie’s name? Why shouldn’t she be looking for her missing friend out of honest concern? Even the fulsome enchanter would have to—

  The stirring, rustling sounds in the chamber on her left stopped her wispy breathing like a swallowed plug. It was very dark, she suddenly realized. Only starlight strained to illuminate the passageway through the grated windows. Why didn’t I bring along a lamp? I can’t even light a tor—

  The soft scuttling sounds again—more like scratching. Just beyond the rusting chamber door. Her eyes studied every inch of the forbidding portal. The sounds might be the struggling of someone bound and gagged on the floor. Might be....

  Her hand stretched out to touch the verdigris-stained knob, closed on it. She withdrew it when she heard the muffled voices through the thick ashlar walls. In this chamber? No. No, they were coming from the next cell.

  Madonna, do I move on or turn back or—sssst!

  Footsteps ascending the winding stairway. Low voices. The clump of boots and the jangling of—Merciful Father! The jangling of keys—the ring of keys Mord always carried when in the tower!

  Genya’s face twisted like that of a child in pain, but she made no outcry. Instead she did the only thing she could: She tried the knob, and it yielded. But the footsteps were approaching rapidly—Mord...Mord’s voice speaking in those sepulchral tones amid other men’s voices, and by now she could see the orange glare of their torches rising to the third level, and they were coming, they were coming, and there was nothing to do but—

  Creak....

  Genya pushed in the door as gently as she could, but still it made its small telltale noise on rusty hinges, and all she could think to do was send up to heaven the most fervent prayer of her young life. Then she was lapped up by darkness, her back to the door, eyes shut tightly, lips drawn inside her mouth, where they continued their trembling.

  And the scuttling sounds were near her feet now.

  Rats.

  “Stay there,” Mord’s voice boomed in echo, “and allow no one to pass.”

  She bit her lip. Her whole body went numb to hear him striding past her place of concealment, and she prayed that he possessed no sense that might divine her presence here in the foul-smelling darkness.

  She shuddered in the rank chamber, hearing Mord enter through the door wherein she had heard the voices. And now despite her circumstances, her undying curiosity was stoked. Who was in there? Dim light shone here and there through cracks in the ancient mortar that separated the chambers. She heard a woman’s voice—and a man’s—and Mord’s deep basso profundo, twice as loud as either. Something was familiar about the woman’s voice, but Mord kept drowning her out just when Genya would begin to identify the lilt. It was all infuriatingly muted. Perhaps if she could get closer—

  The cracks flared alight, a lamp having been lit on the adjacent chamber wall. Up near the low ceiling: a sizeable chink through which yellow light gleamed, unfiltered. If she could reach that height, it might be—

  “...better, isn’t it?”

  Genya gasped. It was the man’s voice. Near the wall. He must have lit the lamp, and now his tone had a remarkably familiar quality. Her scalp itched, nerve ends prickling. She had to know.

  Slowly, inching along with a balance and control that might have done a bushi proud, Genya moved across the cluttered room, in darkness. Her hands reached out sensitively, feeling her path...a set of stocks or a pillory from the days of the rampaging bandits; along one wall, a huge arm of a catapult or mangonel, disassembled, rusting....

  The wall. And the familiarity of the woman’s voice again—

  The chink was a foot above her head. She reached a hand up and felt the warmer air that soughed through it. The man—a dreadful inkling. No, forget that, it couldn’t be....

  She reached down along the wall. There must be something there to climb onto. She felt along the clammy stone, searching downward. A rat ran over her foot at the base of the wall, and she lurched back, bumping the mangonel arm and clamping her hand over the hiss of her sharp inhale. She froze, listening. An agonizing minute.... The conversation continued unabated.

  Reaching down again, Genya found something cold and crusted, an iron object that seemed solid and almost flat. It wouldn’t yield when she tried to shake it. Solid footing....

  Her heart pounded as she mounted with a deliberation that made her muscles ache. Her fingers found purchase in the chipped mortar and stone, and she brought her eye to the chink and peered through. For an instant the lamplight was blinding, but almost before her eye had adjusted, her mind began to accept the testimony her ear had presented.

  Trembling like a winter-born foal, she heard little of what they were saying, so bewildered, so frightened was she by the figures she saw gathered.

  The man, the woman, Mord—

  The woman—the man—what was their connection? Why did they conspire with the evil sorcerer? Then she began to make sense of it, to realize what the connection must be. And their identities, in the context of what was being said, so horrified her that she lost her concentration momentarily. One hand slipped its purchase, and in her anxiety to maintain her hold she grabbed at a section of mildew-rotted mortar that crumbled at her touch and spilled onto the floor.

  Beneath her feet: the scrambling of furry bodies. And in the adjacent chamber, all three heads turned to regard the wall.

  * * * *

  Mord’s laughter boomed. “Edgy, aren’t we? Rats, you see.”

  The woman sighed in relief. “Of course I’m edgy. Meeting with you like this—working behind the king’s back—Why must you continue to work in secret? Why not let Klann in on what we know? Haven’t you done away with those in the city whom you hated so?”

  “All quite cleverly manipulated, if I do say so myself,” the man added, idly twirling his sword in its scabbard, the point clinking on the slimy stone floor.

  “No, I’m not yet finished with them,” Mord replied to the woman. “And it remains to my advantage to have you operating on my behalf. I still wish to court the king’s favor, you see, by imparting to him bits of intelligence that no one else might, from time to time.”

  The traitor from Vedun chuckled in a way that caused Mord to hiss softly. “I should think your magicks would be sufficient to turn up such intelligence, eh?” the man observed.

  Mord suffered the insult silently. This fool would also pay, when his usefulness was spent. “Mmm, perhaps. But there is much that you do not understand about sorcery. Be mindful only that we are all in this together now, each for the thing he—and she—wants. But now—where were we? Ah, yes...the catacombs. What an advantage they shall be! Rorka and his men should be alone there now?”

  “For the nonce, I think,” the traitor affirmed.

  Mord nodded. “Good. The sooner he’s dealt with, the better.”

  “Why the baron?” the man asked.

  Mord paused before answering. They were beginning to ask too many questions. “Because I hate him, also. More than the others, in some ways. He might well raise considerable trouble against us—allies and such.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible anymore,” the traitor said.

  “If that’s what you think, then perhaps you haven’t done your work well enough,” Mord said haughtily. They were both staring at him speculatively. “In any case King Klann expects that Rorka is dead already, true?” They looked at each other. The woman nodded slowly, uncertainly, but the man tossed his head back and giggled, a rapid sound that was quickly strangled off.

  “Power games,” the man said, “how endlessly fascinating they are.”

  Mord eyed him closely. He was going quite mad, and that could be dangerous.

  “What about this Oriental?” Mord inquired. “Has he departed, as they’re saying?”

  “Of course not,” the traitor replied. “He’s full of delusio
ns of military glory.”

  “Then why didn’t he lead them in full revolt so that Klann’s forces could crush all the rebels?”

  “They had no plan. No unity of effort. It all began haphazardly, because of the guildsmen’s impatience.”

  So, Mord thought, then my timing was wrong. But the proper turn of the ratchet now, at just the right moment, and....

  Mord folded his arms. “Do these upstarts truly think the taking of a peasant village proves them worthy opponents of both King Klann’s army and my power?”

  The traitor shrugged. “It seems so. The Japanese has them singing songs to their own legend!”

  Splendid, Mord decided. That oriental rascal—double-agenting! He had to admire the fool’s cleverness and hubris. But he feared that this latest abortive effort may have crushed the city’s fighting spirit, making the mutual destruction more difficult in view of the king’s pigheadedness about keeping the city in his peaceful thrall. An interesting problem: How to eliminate the Rorka threat while at the same time inspiring the militia to rebel again in such a way that Klann will be swept into internecine conflict. Moving too obviously could cast dangerous suspicion upon him, perhaps compromising the Grand Scheme. But what risk isn’t worth taking, after murdering Klann himself?

  “The Deathwind legend—what does it mean? What do they say of it now?” Mord snapped. “And whom do they suppose this ‘Deliverer’ to be?”

  The traitor leaned back. “It’s...just a legend they’re using to strike fear in the superstitious soldiery.”

  “Oh, there’s more to it than that, you can be assured. Much more.” Mord paused, worrying in his mind at the thing that troubled him most. He would have to move swiftly, his intuition told him. “The witch woman knew. Too bad she’s gone. Ahh—she would never have talked. But it’s more than a legend, this...confusing thing that’s torn by the clash of cosmic forces.”

  Mord snapped out of his reverie when he saw the pair staring at him. And then he had it.

  “It just occurred to me,” Mord said in an amused tone, “how I’ll deal with the elusive baron. Specters of things past nestle in the ground beneath our feet, did you know that? One never knows.... I shall take my leave of you now.”

  “And I shall follow soon after,” the traitor added. “I’ll be missed before long.”

  Mord bowed to them and moved quickly through the corridors, his guards trailing behind. He descended to the dungeon level, where he laughingly retrieved the homunculi the children were so fond of handling. A short while later, while Mord recited the words of an arcane spell of sympathetic magic, he wrapped all but one of the figures in articles stripped from the bodies of slain knights after the castle siege. The last was rolled in a garment taken from Rorka’s bedchamber. He began to chant, the figures slowly, eerily moving, writhing to its rhythm. Then, obtaining a shapeless handful of the same malleable substance that formed the figures, he began to knead and work and roll it in his hands, drawing it out, sculpting it.

  Soon the sinuous thing took definite form. Movement. Life, of an imitative sort. He set it on the stone slab amidst the man-forms, where it performed its hideous work.

  An hour later, the complex, wearying rite completed, Mord hurried to the dungeon sub-cellar the traitor had described. A torch’s illumination revealed the discolored outline of the concealed door of stone, moisture having seeped through the slender crack. Mord found the disguised lever with little difficulty, depressed it. The stone and metal mechanism scraped and groaned from years of settling, but the aperture gaped open, causing the sorcerer to toss his head back, a gravelly laugh filling the cellar.

  Seconds later he was off into the tunnel, heading for the distant training cavern in the catacombs beneath Vedun, to witness what he had done.

  * * * *

  Several levels above, Genya rushed from the tower, only minutes behind Mord’s conspirators. She was badly shaken, her entire world disintegrating. What in hell was happening here? What would be the fate of Vedun, given the monstrous things she’d heard and seen? She could no longer trust even those she might have counted on.

  It was late in the night, yet the castle was still crawling with activity. She was unimpeded as she moved hurriedly through the wards and halls, snatching the sack from the scullions’ chambers, putting off the chambermaids’ curiosity with evasive words, not even tarrying long enough to hear them speak of the ill omen that attended the horrible death of the prophetess.

  Alone, she sped through the central keep, through the inner curtain’s tunnel which led to the miller’s gate, situated between the castle’s westerly towers. The impregnable gate, rarely used, was cut into the west outer bailey wall and led into a fortified casemate, a defensive outwork set on a causeway over the moat. Beyond it camped a company of mercenaries. But she had been promised safe passage through them, if....

  This was the last resort she had dreaded, she reflected, as she ducked into a dim, unused larder and donned the man’s breeches, tunic, jerkin, and slouch hat. The unthinkable last resort. She had been planning to find another way out with Richard and Lottie when the time was right. But that was not possible now. Now she had to get out alone, quickly, though she knew she couldn’t pay Tomas’s price. Tomas—the leering Keeper of the miller’s gate. How repulsive he was. She had heard all the disturbing stories about him, but they had to be put behind her now in her urgency. She would have to count on her persuasive charms to bluff her way out.

  She stashed her own clothes in a bin and waited for a band of soldiers to pass. Then, inhaling to steel herself for the confrontation with Tomas, she sprinted to the guardhouse before the miller’s gate. Knocked—two long, two short—as she’d been instructed.

  “Enter.”

  The iron door rasped open under her push, and she slid inside to see Tomas’ unseemly smile. He reclined in a curve-backed chair near the gate, his feet propped on a dusty flour barrel. He slapped at flies lazily with a short riding lash as he watched her enter. He was alone.

  Peering up at the face under the low-brimmed slouch, he grinned, mildly surprised. “Well, Genya—never thought I’d see you here. The miller’s gate is quite an attraction these days, is it?” He swung his feet down and ambled up to her casually, the lash draped over his shoulder.

  “Tomas, we’ve been friends for a long time—”

  “Friends?” he said airily, under arched eyebrows.

  She swallowed. “A-all right—acquaintances, co-servitors—call it what you will. But we’re fellow citizens of the province and—”

  He flipped the slouch off her head with the lash, her dark curls rushing down over her shoulders like sea-foam against a moonlit shoal.

  He snickered as he sidled around her. “Still protrusive and callipygian, even in a man’s clothes. Do you know what that means?” She stiffened with the impact as he slapped her bottom with the lash. But she remained in place, raising no protest.

  “Tomas, I need to get out of here. Now...tonight. I’m going mad in this place. I must get home for just a few hours. I’ve got to see my parents, be sure for myself that they’re well after all this—”

  “More likely to curl up with your friend, uh—Wilbert? Wilhelm?”

  “Wilfred,” she said sternly, “and I swear to you that’s not what I have in mind. You know I’ve got to be back here by tomorrow noon, else the king will be sending troops after me. I’m his personal servant, you know.”

  Tomas grinned cruelly. “So I’ve heard. Been ministering to His Majesty’s needs, have you? Tell me...what’s it like to...cavort with kings.”

  He probed at her breasts with the handle of the lash. Loathing welled up inside her throat. She wanted to spit into his face, to jab out an eye, but she instead forced a shaky smile and stood fast under his fondling.

  “Listen, Tomas, I can’t pay you the price you ask tonight. I simply must get home to see my parents, to breathe the air outside these walls before I go mad.” She reached up to caress his face. “But tomorrow—”


  He grabbed her hand and squeezed it. “I must get out tonight, but tomorrow I’ll pay,” he mimicked through clenched teeth, frightening her. “If I had one taler for every time I’ve heard that, then I would be king and Klann would be down here collecting favors.” But then he let go of her hand suddenly and waxed serious.

  “Wait here,” he said simply, departing through the door she had entered.

  Barbs of frost needled her insides icily, to hear the turning of the key in the lock. Oh no...he’s going to report my attempted bribe. I’ll deny it, I’ll—No, she was at their mercy. What to do, what to say—? She felt defenseless. Terror broiled now in the pit of her stomach, the turmoil making her nauseous.

  Minutes later Tomas returned, but not with soldiers. With him was the brutish Steward of the Larders, the one they called Chooch. She tried hard to ignore his presence, to address only the smug Tomas, for she remembered well how Chooch once had been flogged and made to do public penance for trying to force his embraces on a milkmaid.

  She felt the clutch of panic. She had to get out of there.

  “All right, Tomas,” she said with affected aloofness, “you won’t let me go tonight, then neither will I pay your price tonight. Perhaps another night you’ll...see it my way.”

  With a casual flutter of her eyelids she turned to the door, but Chooch imposed his hulking form between her and the portal, slamming it. Her eyes widened, her self-confidence shattered.

  Tomas chuckled behind her, circled around and locked the door with a screeching twist of metal against metal.

  “You have it all wrong, my dear. I don’t want you. Chooch is the gateway to your freedom. I shall simply resume my perch and monitor the proceedings—no sense wasting time on second thoughts while we’re all together like this. Proceed,” he finished with amused detachment, sitting and flicking out at the heat-maddened flies in the stuffy chamber. “I love to observe others, in the throes of ecstasy....”