Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two (15 page)

But although Julian nodded agreeably and smiled at his king’s words, inside he was fuming. His thoughts were of the samurai. Even in defeat the barbarian had usurped something of the glory that should be his.

* * * *

Far below the reveling and feasting and reminiscing in the castle’s halls and chambers, beneath even the dungeon and subcellar bowels of the fortress, the traitor from Vedun sat in a rock-ribbed cell, facing the masked sorcerer across an ancient blood-crusted torture rack.

“Again,” Mord’s voice thundered hollowly, “and omit no details.”

The traitor repeated the gathered intelligence: Rorka was still alive, he and his soldiers hidden away somewhere by the prophetess Tralayn; it was the barbarian oriental who had brought in the body of the key-bearer boy, Mark, and claimed to have killed several of Klann’s men in the process; Gonji was further suggesting rebellion against the occupying army, but not so aggressively as certain militant citizens; the council’s official stand was to slowly recruit and train a militia which might join with Rorka and any allies he could muster; and it had in fact been Gonji who had had the sheer audacity to fire upon the deadly wyvern. Still unknown, though, was the identity of the mysterious madman with the superhuman abilities who had slain Field Commander Ben-Draba and then escaped on foot from a whole company of Llorm dragoons and free companions.

“Mmmm. As you’ve said, Rorka may yet prove troublesome and will have to be dealt with,” Mord thought aloud. “Any allies he could marshal against us would only increase the difficulty of my task—and I shall not fail again. Make no mistake, they’re lying about the meaning of this key. They know something.
Someone
among them knows something—but
who?
Klann is too soft and sentimental now to pursue the matter with the methods that would pry out answers. But this key is
important.
It has been in contact with someone,
something
of terrible potential. Something which must be dealt with,
destroyed.
And yet...somehow...something with which I feel a strange kinship. I wish I had been there to see this wild-man they’re all in fear of.

“And this slant-eyed barbarian—how
dare
he attack my familiar as if it were a target in some contest for drunken archers!” Mord felt the spot in his abdomen where the wyvern had been pierced by Gonji’s shaft. His obsidian eyes blazed behind the golden mask.

“Now that he’s seen its power and portent, I doubt he’ll try such foolishness again. And when I’ve done with him, I’ll see his flesh roasted by inches. But in the meantime he shall serve my purpose quite well. Let him foment rebellion among these cross-worshippers. Let his vanity and impudence lead them to destruction.”

Mord began to chuckle, a mirthless clucking sound oozing from the breathing holes of the mask like corruption from a festering wound.

“Do you know, I just realized that he cannot escape me—
ever?
I have the means of control over him within my grasp.” He blared a deep gravelly laugh that echoed in the vaulted cell.

“But now—the one who awaits you is at hand....”

And Mord led the traitor from the cell through an iron-bound door, down a corridor hewn from rock to a similar dungeon chamber, this one appointed not by ancient torturers but rather for the comfort of their administrators.

Then, leaving them alone, the sorcerer hurried back up to the castle’s ground level and into the great hall, where drunken mercenaries still sang and jested, half their number already passed out over tables and benches and sprawled on the slippery and discolored parquet floor. No one who remained was sober enough to pay the sorcerer’s curious actions any heed.

He kicked a reclining hound out of the way and pushed aside a bench that lay upside down in the center of the hall.

Still there—darkening red spots from droplets of Gonji’s blood, spilled during the duel. He carefully scraped all he could find into a small phial, using a sharp, wickedly curved knife. Nodding smugly, he moved toward the arched main doors. A mercenary leaned against one door, barring his way.

“I’s the wizard, no?” the man slurred drunkenly. “How’s it goin’, wiz?”

Mord regarded him balefully. “Have you faith in the Dark One?”

“Sure, why not?” the drunk grated, leering.

“No. You lie. If you had faith in him, you’d also have respect for his servant.”

Mord spoke a strange phrase, his gloved hand over his heart, then reached out with a booted toe to press on each of the mercenary’s feet in turn. The wastrel’s grin faded. He slumped to the floor, peering up at the sorcerer, uncertainty and fear showing in his swollen eyes.

“You can come to me on your knees tomorrow, down in the dungeons, and then we’ll...talk about restoring what you’ve lost.” And Mord was gone.

And the mercenary lay staring at the smoky ceiling, too drunk now to gag or scream or weep as he would in the morning when he pulled off his boots to see the wriggling things that had supplanted his toes.

CHAPTER SIX

They rode back to Vedun in the pre-dawn gloom under lowering skies, the clink and squeak of saddles and harnesses mingling with the clatter of hooves on the cobblestone road. It was chilly and damp.

Behind them Gonji recognized the ominous “faith chant” of Mord, mistimed and discordant as it rose up from chambers and wards in the castle.

They rode to the edge of the paving and across, where the way began to descend to the plateau. There they waited for their escort to catch up, as they thought they were obliged to do. The mercenary troop slowed and waved them ahead.

They shrugged to one another and were about to move on when Gonji halted them, seeing something on the castle ramparts.

There stood Mord, a black and gold gargoyle, staring after them. He raised his arms out to his sides, and high above him in the crenellated cradle of a drum tower, the motion was mirrored.

The ghastly wyvern unfurled its batwings and emerged from demon-sleep. Rotating its antlered head languidly, opening its jaws to uncoil a long forked tongue, it screeched once, a cracked morning greeting from hell to the world of the sane and normal. Then it lofted from its perch with a grace that belied its bulk, as if on invisible traces. With a slow, confident flapping it soared down toward the mounted party.

“Cholera-pox!”
Gonji breathed through clenched teeth, reaching for the Sagami’s hilt. He had no bow along, nothing that could serve as long-range armament.

Not now. Not like this....

“Jesu Christi!”
Milorad whimpered.

“Stand your ground,” Gonji commanded.

The wyvern hovered overhead, and Gonji met its piercing fire-lick gaze defiantly. It slowed impossibly, looking hollow as a dragon-kite, jackal’s head angling down at them. And then Gonji saw: his arrow stub was gone from its belly. For an instant its eyes became Mord’s, then it lashed its wings hard and skirred off with a rushing of wind that tore at the chapeaus of Flavio, Milorad, and Garth. Trailing its barbed tail, talons drawn back along its sides, it hurtled over the lowlands in search of morning forage.

Gonji expelled his breath and relaxed. What sort of game was Mord playing? If he was sure Gonji had attacked the beast, why didn’t he finish him when he had the chance? Ah—the
king
, that was it. Now that he was Klann’s spy....

The memory of the mutilated monks at Holy Word Monastery returned to him, and he wondered what this creature ate that turned into searing saliva and filthy corrupting excrement in its innards.

They rode on, the mercenary troop falling ever farther behind, cackling and chattering, still reeling from the night’s orgiastic revelry. Soon they stopped following altogether, then doubled back to the castle like bouncers who had expelled
personae non grata.

“Garth,” Gonji called, cantering alongside the big smith, “why in hell didn’t you say all you knew about Klann before? What
is
this business about you saving his life?”

“Ja,
Garth,” Milorad added in a voice jouncy from the horses’ gait, “you were a
general
in this army once?”

“His Field Commander,” Garth replied, raising his eyebrows for emphasis, a small silly grin splitting his face. His eyes were red and puffy. All four were rosy-eyed and irritable from sleeplessness, drinking, and the jading feast, but Garth’s eyes seemed especially raw. He had the look of a man spent by maudlin tearfulness.

“Like Ben-Draba?” Gonji pressed. Then, seeing Garth’s nod, he added, “But why hide it all this time?”

“What was to be gained? I just didn’t think it important enough. And I have reasons for not wishing to call up old memories.”

“Your wife’s death?” Gonji probed.

Garth shot him a look but didn’t inquire as to his source for the information. “
Ja
, for one thing,” he answered thickly. “My beautiful wife...mother of my sons....” His voice now carried a rambling quality, thoughts drifting. “Cut down by the plague in her prime...burned...cremated with all the other victims....”

His lips and eyes began to quiver as if he would begin to cry. Gonji looked away, staring straight ahead along the road.

“And that’s what cost you the will to fight, the desire to continue as a soldier?” Flavio asked.

“Ja,”
Garth said, breath hitching.

He reached down to his saddle for a skin filled with ale and gulped down half its contents. As if it had been a sanctioning signal, Milorad also retrieved a skin from a pouch, this one filled with mead. With a sly grin the snowy-bearded ex-statesman slogged at the thick, sweet liqueur.

“Must have my fill before I reach home and Mama finds out how much I’ve had tonight,” Milorad said with an uncharacteristic cackle and hiccup that made Flavio smile.

Gonji could only grimace to watch the old man’s zestful pleasure in the cloying beverage.

Weary and sore, surfeited of feasting and bewildered by the mosaic of castle events he was unable to make sense of, Gonji fell to brooding silence. Sleep. That was what he needed. Refreshing sleep. Then to discuss with the city leaders what they planned to do now that they’d met with the evasive king. Probe this blacksmith who never revealed all he knew of any subject. That’s what he’d do later. Then practice. Work at his skills.
Julian.
Forget him. Don’t be troubled by the foolish duel. More important things to consider now.

What will be my next move? What is it I want to know about—?

“Well, my friends,” Flavio began, shattering Gonji’s reverie, “tell me what you all think of our future now. Now that we’ve met with Klann—eh, those of us who...didn’t already have his acquaintance.” His sheepish smile was aimed at Garth.

“Oh, it’s a most optimistic promise for the future,” Milorad declared, reeling a bit in the saddle. “He’s a very agreeable fellow. I think he’s been honest with us.”

“He has,” Garth agreed curtly.

“Don’t be too sure,” Gonji cautioned. “So sorry, but too facile trust is a great enemy right now. He’s done nothing definite about your request for redress of grievances.”

“He will,” Garth countered. “He was always...fair.” There was, Gonji decided, a trace of irony in the smith’s statement.

“I believe so, also,” Flavio assured. “He has promised recompense, the support of the bereaved families, visiting privileges for those held against their will....”

“
Hai
, a lot of hollow promises. Typical political vaguery.” Gonji frowned, determined to take the part of the devil’s advocate, personally aggrieved as he was by Klann’s minions. But deep inside he could find no compelling reason to distrust Klann himself other than the single thing that most bothered him about the legendary king:

“And recall, if you please, his unnerving habit of changing his mind capriciously. To me that’s a dangerous sign. You saw how hostile Mord continues to be toward the city. He seems to enjoy much influence with Klann. That, too, bodes ill. Even if Klann is serious about leaving in the spring—and would
you
, if you were in his comfortable circumstances? But even if he does, what happens until then?”

“Until then,” Flavio said with growing annoyance, “we shall operate as we always have under Baron Rorka’s protection.”

“
Hai
, and will you expect the same protection from Klann? What about the mercenary companies? Can you coexist with brigands peacefully for the better part of a year? It looked as though few, if any, are billeted at the castle—even their
king
doesn’t trust them! Are you going to live beside them?”

“If necessary,” Flavio said brusquely.

“So sorry, but that will be difficult, I think,” Gonji persisted. “He’ll be recruiting new ones to bolster his army. Your city’s going to be overrun with rogues. Every misfit scum for a thousand kilometers in every direction will be heading for Vedun soon. You’ll be crawling with them. Where will they all stay when the barracks and inns are filled?”