Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two (11 page)

Klann looked up and down the table at his officers, who grunted or clucked hoarsely.

“I might make room for him at the end of my saber,” Julian advanced haughtily. A few nervous laughs came from the table, but they were bled of all their conviction by the still poignant memory of the big commander’s helplessness at the ferocious attack by the stranger, the subsequent whirlwind escape, climaxed by the unique warrior’s amazing leap over a fifteen-foot wall and disappearance into the forest—with a war arrow embedded in his flesh.

“He’s probably dead already of his wounds,” one of Klann’s captains said from behind clenched hands that supported his chin on bracing elbows. There were mutters of hopeful agreement.

“I’m not so sure.”

From his end of the table came the eerie bass voice of Mord. The sorcerer stood and pointed to Gonji with a gloved hand.

“Tell me what you know of the Deathwind, barbarian, he who is called Grejkill.” A wave of hushing swept the entire side of the hall.

Gonji was annoyed by the wizard’s insult but too intrigued by the abrupt broaching of the object of his own quest to pay it any heed. It was in fact the first time he could recall anyone had mentioned the mystery names to
him.
His heart began to pound.

“It is...the name of the thing I have come to seek in the West. I have been told many things about these names. Some conflicting things. There are those who say the names refer to nothing more than a European legend. But others would tell you that they speak of a beast...a thing that is not quite a man—or perhaps it’s the other way around. My quest after it has led me here, to this province. In these mountains the lore-mongers name the Deathwind as their God’s avenging spirit, some protective horror that will lay low their oppressors....”

At this last disclosure there were gasps and whispers all around, for there could be little doubt that Gonji had been referring to the occupying force of Klann.

“...of course that’s all probably peasant talk, the idle chatter of the uneducated. Who can say?” he concluded, smiling slyly.

“I think perhaps you know more than fireside prattle,” Mord accused, and Gonji’s arms stiffened at his sides. He was suddenly sorry that he had removed his swords.

“What do you know of
this?
” From a concealed pocket Mord produced a large formed metal object. A huge key. The key produced an immediate effect on Gonji’s companions; their flaring nerve ends could almost be seen. But Gonji himself could not remember ever having seen it, though it piqued a recent memory.

“Nothing. I’ve never seen it before.” He tinged his voice with gentle menace, weary of the sorcerer’s brusque tone.

“I think you’re lying.”

“Mord, that’s enough,” said Klann, his tone almost one of boredom.

“I think you’re all lying,” Mord persisted, “concealing intelligence of interest to the king.”

Gonji’s mordant tongue, one of the legacies of his Nordic mother, had lost its taste for diplomacy.

“Very sorry,
maho-tsukai-san
—Sir Magician—but I believe your great powers are being wasted on this effort at intimidation. Why don’t you try them at divining instead—”

“Gonji!” Flavio warned curtly.

“—I would think it to be a simple matter for one who can call up giants and foul carrion birds.”

Mord raised his arms forebodingly.

Chairs and benches scraped at all the surrounding tables, a few screams heard as people scrambled to clear the area. Gonji grabbed up the Sagami, its blade whining from the scabbard as he leaped clear of the table.

“Gonji—no!” the delegates were crying out.

“Mord—stop this!” came Klann’s bellow.

The sorcerer worked at forming a shape in the air before him, something long and slithery and fashioned of blue smoke that wriggled and twined its way through the air between him and the samurai.

Gonji stood still as marble with the
katana
in a two-handed clench at middle guard, the hilt before his navel, the point fixed on Mord.

“Disperse it, Mord!”

The shape descended in a sinuous wave. Gonji took a single step back and raised his blade high over his head for a strike. He felt hands at his shoulders, ignored them.

“Send it away!”

Mord brushed one hand across his body in a wave of dispersal, and the shape turned to sparkling blue scintillas that shone an exquisite instant and then fell to the floor as dust.

“Forgive me, sire,” Mord said, head hanging low, sullen eyes gleaming out of the golden mask’s sockets, “but this barbarian—who knows nothing of what he speaks—kindled my anger. But there was never anything to fear. Merely a warning against disrespectful tongues. I’ll take my leave, if it pleases you.”

“Yes-yes, go,” Klann said.

He moved off but stopped at the end of the table and leered back in Gonji’s direction.

“The shape you saw was but an illusion. The creature it suggests, however, is quite real in substance. I should be pleased to introduce you to it one day.”

Gonji stood with the Sagami in one hand along his side. He arched an eyebrow. “I’ll look forward to it.”

And Mord was gone with a rustle of robes.

Gonji took a deep breath, restoring his harmony. He experienced a sudden chill at the cold runlets of sweat that trickled under his tunic. His bristling nape hairs gave him an urge to scratch vigorously. But he forced a placid expression as he smartly returned the Sagami to its scabbard and placed both his swords back in his sash.

Already the hall rumbled with low voices retelling the way the incident had been perceived. By morning it would exist in a hundred versions, each more fantastic than the last.

“All right, everyone—eat, drink; make music, you musicians. We command it!” roared Klann’s voice. “This is a time for gaiety. No, not that funeral dirge!” he called to the gallery. “Give us a happy refrain!”

Gonji looked over his shoulder at Garth and nodded. It was the smith who had grasped him by the shoulders in an effort at restraint.

The delegates were sorting themselves out, restoring their dignity after the unsavory incident, when they received a shock that overwhelmed all others on this monumental day.

“And what of
you
all these years, mighty man-of-valor?” Klann was booming. “I see that it will have to be
we
who shatter your stony silence!”

Klann was addressing Garth.

CHAPTER FIVE

Gonji looked to Flavio and Milorad for an explanation, but there seemed to be not a glimmer of understanding between them. Flavio gaped and extended an upturned palm in perplexity as he watched Garth lumber to the king’s table.

“Well, Garth,” Klann intoned, eyes alight with emotion, “
Gundersen
, is it now? Gundersen indeed! Do you think that beard and a layer of fat can disguise you from us, Garth? Did you really believe we might have forgotten you and all your valiant deeds? Still a battler, I see, if your eye be any indication! We had heard rumors that you might be residing in these territories, and now our good cheer is complete. And yes—things
have
changed, haven’t they,
gen-kori?

“All of you—hear me! Raise your cups in toast to this man you see before me. This is the former General Garth Iorgens, our onetime field commander, a great and noble warrior, if ever there was one, who twice—
twice
—saved us from death at the risk of his own life. All hail!”

A cheer went up from the crowd, and cups were tipped and sloshed in Garth’s honor.

Gonji regarded Flavio and Milorad suspiciously.

“Do you swear, both of you,” Gonji asked, “that you never knew anything of this?”

“I swear,” Flavio replied, as Milorad nodded vigorously. “I have known Garth for twenty-five years. He used to speak of his former military career, but never once did he mention with whom he served. This is all quite incredible.”

Gonji scratched his chin pensively as Garth was directed to Klann’s side of the table by Llorm officers, one of whom saluted him and clenched his hand warmly in greeting. Klann embraced the smith and bade him sit in the empty chair on his right, and the two began to speak in the Kunan tongue of the Akryllonians. Garth’s mood shifted almost at once. He grinned sheepishly as he spoke with Klann, red-faced to be the center of Klann’s back-slapping attention and doubtless the object of the mutterings that swept the hall. He avoided meeting eyes with the party from Vedun, knowing full well the time of accounting that would be his on the return ride from the castle.

Gonji watched the sincere display of nostalgic affection between the two men at the royal table, all thoughts of Mord displaced now. Nor did he miss the cautious looks that passed among some of the officers, especially General Gorkin and Captain Sianno. Something was troubling them.

“It’s going to be an interesting ride home.”

“Indeed, yes,” Flavio agreed.

The festivities bloomed anew. Acrobats performed their gyrations down the central path, followed by a troupe of masked and costumed mummers, performing an ill-chosen somber pantomime that was jeered at by the drunken soldiers. Most of the Llorm families were gone now, and new bands of mercenaries had taken up places at empty tables. The thought again occurred that the 3rd Free Company might turn up in the hall. Gonji saw in memory the snarling captain, Navarez; his toady subordinate Esteban, he of the horse face and scarred eye; and Jocko—that gruff and grizzled old knave who had saved Gonji’s hide.

He smiled, tossed off the rest of his wine, and sloshed it around in his mouth. Let them come. It would be one cracking good reunion,
neh?

Food and drink continued to parade from kitchen and larders. Ribaldry and raucous humor ran rampant. Mercenaries sang and bellowed and belched and chased one another, some tumbling to the floor in impromptu wrestling matches, to be joined by frolicsome dogs.

Gonji, Flavio, and Milorad washed from a ewer and budget brought by a pair of servant children, and the samurai noted with distaste how many of the mercenaries simply wiped greasy hands on the coats of the prancing, barking dogs.

As their cups were being refilled by Genya, Julian Kel’Tekeli strode up to Gonji, adjusting the hasps of his cape and half-armor with foppish elan.

“You seem anxious to use those, bodyguard,” Julian said, indicating Gonji’s sashed swords. Flavio and Milorad tensed. “I’ve yet to see them at work. Would you care to join me in an entertainment? An exhibition for this...august audience?”

“What do you have in mind?” Gonji’s head began clearing at once, the cobwebs of satiety dashed by suspicion.

“A demonstration,” Julian replied, smiling insincerely, “for the amusement of the king and his company. King Klann is an avid enthusiast of fighting skills, and it’s said that the fencing style of your world differs considerably from conventional saber, rapier, and broadsword fencing. We should all like to judge for ourselves.”

Gonji pondered the challenge a moment, drumming his fingers on the oaken planks before him. Two wise
kami
and a screaming demon chased through Gonji’s mind: First came the wise counsel that as long as he could avoid an overt display of his swordsmanship skill, he held the arrogant captain at a disadvantage; Julian was obviously consumed with a passion to know how well a man who espoused suicide before dishonor could fight. Then there was the stern voice of
bushido
, admonishing Gonji against showcasing skills that should be humbly held in check until they were needed in true combat. No such insulting request to show off would ever be made to a samurai at court in
Dai Nihon.

But the demon of hatred was there, too, shouting down all good counsel. Part of him still roared for satisfaction, for a display of
ken-jutsu
technique that would inspire respect and fear in this haughty soldier who had become so large a figure in Gonji’s current circumstances. Julian was at once an employer and an iconic object of loathing and vengefulness. Indeed, when the time was right, he must have it out with Julian—had not the captain humiliated him at the inn by breaking the ceremonial short sword given Gonji by his mother? The thought brought an angry fire to his breast.
Damn me for a compromising beggar....

And then he heard Flavio clear his throat tellingly, and remembered his promise.

“So sorry, Captain, but I’m afraid I promised the Elder I’d refrain from contentious displays. It seems I’ve trodden on my promise already.” He bowed to Julian.

Julian sidled over to Flavio, making small circling motions with the pommel of his sheathed saber and displaying his predatory white teeth. Tables were being cleared out of the center of the hall, to their right.

“Oh, come now, Master Flavio. No violence is intended here. Just a matching of pure skills. The king will be presiding. Surely there’s nothing to fear. You
do
wish to please the king, to win his favor, don’t you?”