Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two (2 page)

The general’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, yes, I think you’re right, sire. Time does thieve away the days of a man’s life.” He brightened. “Ananka Kel’Gana is heavy with child. Perhaps within the present moon she’ll—”

“And the child will be fatherless.”

Gorkin gulped, recalling the dragoon trampled in a recent cavalry engagement. “You’re right, sire, I had forgotten.”

They walked in silence for a space toward the inner ward behind the central keep. The general respectfully fell a half step behind his king, who walked with hands clasped at his back. Servants scurried past under the heightened attention of stewards as the king ambled by. They were in an area honeycombed with myriad chambers and living quarters, stuffed to overflowing with the families of the hereditary army. Children skittered underfoot and jostled scolding servants. Barking dogs scampered and sniffed. The banquet preparations had set the castle bustling.

Gorkin kicked a yelping hound out of the king’s way only to be reprimanded by a chuckling Klann. They broke the fixed gazes of numerous stone-faced sentries, and the general removed two of these from their posts to serve as a personal guard when the king moved out into the ward. Near a sun-drenched exit arch, Klann entered a common garderobe to relieve himself.

Then they were out in the central ward, the sun glaring off flagstones still slick from the recent rains. The ward was alive with activity and noise. At one side soldiers practiced in the training ground before the long, low dormitories that housed them. Steel and wood clashed and clacked as combatants tilted; squeaks and creaks of pulleys and quintains marked the quarter where men trained in strength and agility, attacking spinning wooden man-forms and climbing scaffold ropes.

King Klann watched the activities with informed interest, arms crossed over his chest. General Gorkin’s apprehension showed in the tight crinkles around his dark eyes; allowing the free companions so near the king was a new experience. They were encamped between the outer and middle baileys and outside the barbican, but now the king had granted them access to the training ground and castle halls with but few restrictions, and this was a dangerous practice.

As Klann himself should be the first to realize.

The king breathed deeply the arresting cooking and baking aromas issuing from the kitchens and bakehouse across the ward. Tonight they would feast as had the monarchs of old. And this place, this Transylvania, was going to be the beginning of the end of the long, weary quest. Home was in the wind. Yes, soon they would be home.

“Yes, Gorkin,” Klann began in a voice edged with resolve, “one final thrust. One more sally after Akryllon, that’s all we need. And these poor people will be home at last. Home to the land none of them have ever seen—that’s rather silly, isn’t it, Gorkin?”

“Milord?”

“To call a place home when you’ve never seen it—really seen it, lived in it?”

“No, of course not, sire. Home is home.”

“Do you see those mountains?” Klann said, sweeping an arm over the peaks of the Transylvanian Alps. “Such beauty. Such...insular comfort. We feel good about this place, Gorkin. Yes...this will be a nice, pleasant hiatus for the troops, for the families. We’ll winter here, gather strength, and—” He smiled, his eyes narrowing to twinkling slits. “—I think we’ll be reliving some past glories, if our intelligence is accurate.”

A little boy scooted past behind them. Klann, noticing the motion, halted him in Kunan, the Akryllonian common language.

“Come here, little scalawag. Your king commands you.”

The boy was about five, dark-haired and anemic like all the others. Mouth agape, eyes large and liquid and guilt-tinged, he approached the king tentatively, hands behind his back.

“What have you there?” Klann asked. “Come now, let’s see.”

The boy held forth his hands. There was a large, freshly baked tart in each.

“So you’ve snitched these from the bakehouse, have you? Come up here, and we’ll consider your punishment.” Klann scooped him up into his arms with a grunt. “Yes, such fine tarts could wither the integrity of a holy hermit, I should think. But your king is feeling magnanimous today. We’ll pardon your crime for the price of a bite from one of them.” And he exacted his price, grinning and nodding at the tiny fellow, who could but stare.

Klann set the boy down and sent him off with a pat on the rump, shaking a scolding finger at his popeyed retreat.

“These children will want for nothing anymore, Gorkin, be sure of that,” Klann said, tight-lipped. “This land is bounteous and secure—”

There came a sizzling of powder and a
whump!
from the ramparts at their right, followed by a pounding crash in the hills below the outer bailey. The castle troops had begun practicing the use of the mortars mounted in places on the allures. Klann surveyed the castle’s defenses: the formidable bombards, the mangonels for hurling stones into any siege party; the enormous cauldrons which could spew boiling oil and molten lead over whole companies. He walked through the middle bailey gatehouse, guards trailing behind him, and appraised the thick ashlar blocks that comprised the high walls, now displaying his coat-of-arms; observed the Llorm bowmen walking their posts behind the battlements’ croslets and arrow loops and atop wooden brattices, cut through in spots with holes for firing down onto besiegers; the sturdy casemates built into the base of the walls like bunkers; the nearly completed repair work being done on the drawbridge, torn loose during the castle occupation.

The bombard on the opposite wall blasted its charge in a high arc over the hills. From beyond the outer bailey came the bellowing roar of the cretin giant, Tumo, frightened by the blast. Soldiers on the walls laughed and pointed. Klann looked at the guards, and Gorkin chuckled nervously. Before a word was spoken a deep shadow stretched over the ward: They all looked up, breaths hitching at the sight of the wyvern, unfurling its massive wings in the tower battlement above their heads.

“No enemy shall ever assail us here,” Klann said at last. But his voice had quaked ever so slightly.

(don’t be so sure of yourself)

(never relax your vigilance never)

Klann shut his eyes and a trembling coursed through him. It passed presently.

“What do you think about our prospects, Gorkin?” he asked without looking at his edgy castellan.

“I believe you’re quite right, sire. Next time we’ll—”

“Stop agreeing with me because it’s what you think I wish to hear. Tell me what
you
think.”

Gorkin rolled his eyes groundward. “The astrologers have consulted the stars, and prospects are good for finding Akryllon next spring—”

“A plague on the astrologers!” Klann stormed. “Tell me what you think about our decision to stay here!”

The general’s form sagged visibly. “I—I must admit to some apprehension, milord. I don’t like this place. It masks something...foreboding. Already there’s been trouble—the Field Commander’s murder—the city seems restive—Have you seen the arrow stub? In the flying monster’s hide?” His voice had shrunk to a whisper.

Klann laughed. “Yes—and that’s good! Don’t look at me like that—I’m making good sense. I understand the guilty have paid the price. But this should be a grand territory for recruiting the kind of men we need, eh? Men who sally forth against monsters? No, you’re wrong, Gorkin. This is a fine place to stay, and here will come a turning point for us.”

He grew pensive, an ominous shadow darkening his features, moving the soldiers with him to unease.

“One more thrust—and we’ll be home—and nothing,
nothing
must stand in our way—”

(don’t pay it lip service do it pursue it)

(what else can be done?)

(nothing it is gone forever)

The king shuddered in such a way that Gorkin reached out to catch him lest he fall, but Klann waved him off.

A retainer appeared, seeking the king’s attendance on business broached by his counselors. But Klann dismissed them all, wishing to be alone—to the extent the mocking term could apply to him. Against his better judgment, General Gorkin sent the guards back to their duties and himself reluctantly turned to go.

“Gen-kori,” Klann called to him.

The castellan turned slowly, eyebrows uplifted. The Kunan term Klann had used was akin to saying “old-timer” or “longtime comrade.” It was an affectionate usage.

“My liege?”

“It
was
he at the boxing match?”

“So Captain Sianno said.”

Klann nodded and sent him off. A warm nostalgic rush filled the king on whom incident and legend had bestowed the attributive Invincible.

And then, as if out of nothing, the sorcerer Mord appeared at his side.

They stared at each other for a space, neither uttering a word even in greeting. Mord’s black marble eyes gleamed impassively from behind the gold filigreed mask.

“Remove that shaft from your beast’s hide,” Klann said without preamble. “It has an adverse effect on the troops’ morale.”

He walked off toward the gatehouse and back into the central ward as if the audience were ended, but Mord fell into step with him.

“Not so easily accomplished,” the sorcerer’s murky voice offered in reply. “But I shall do it when I can spare the time. I carry the reminder here.” He patted his abdomen, the same vicinity in which the arrow stub protruded from the wyvern’s underbelly.

They walked in silence through the gatehouse, emerging into the ward, out of earshot of any soldiers. The clamor of weapons practice continued. A small cluster of men gathered around an injured mercenary, whose clavicle had been broken in a fencing bout.

“Why can’t you use your power to heal injuries like that one?” Klann asked, pointing. “So much pain might be alleviated.”

“Not an easy task, correcting specific ills of the flesh. Spells of destruction are so much more simply wrought, and at far less cost to the worker.” Mord’s evil grin could be felt from behind his mask, though nothing could be seen through the tiny breathing holes.

Klann scowled, and the sorcerer lifted his hands in a mollifying gesture. “But of course, milord, if a man’s faith is strong enough, it may be translated into the mana necessary for healing. However, few men possess such faith.”

“Faith,” Klann intoned resignedly. He angled away from the scene, affecting regal nonchalance, hands clasped behind him. Mord walked a step to the rear, his gloved hands concealed inside the folds of his sleeves.

“So many men dead in Austria,” Klann said, shaking his head sadly. “After all concessions to ‘faith’ in your god were made, still their god was stronger. You disappoint me at times, Mord.”

“Mi
-lord
,” Mord minced, “you do me grave injustice. Have I not done all that you’ve commanded? Any shortcomings being directly attributable to lack of faith among your subjects? We’ve discussed this matter many times. My Master is implacable in this regard. He demands complete faith and unstinting devotion. Given these, the power he may impart to me is limitless. If you would but permit me the ritual human sacrifice I’ve suggested—”

“No!” Klann shot, then quickly regained composure and lowered his voice. “Don’t broach that subject again. It’s purest animal savagery. It was in allowing such foul dabblings that my father lost the throne of Akryllon. All I ask of you is that you assist me in regaining it. Your time of proof will soon be at hand. Next spring...yes, in the spring....” Klann waxed reflective, teeth gritted.

“I shall vindicate myself, have no fear,” Mord said airily. “But I really cannot understand your attitude toward sacrifice: You’ve never denied me subjects for my experiments in working at the charm of dividing.”

The king looked like a man who had swallowed an emetic. “That is...a different matter—how goes it?”

“Very well. Soon I shall be able to show you the result of my most recent progress. But there is another thing that troubles me now. This banquet—I must lodge my protest against it. These people are full of deceit and treachery. They’re stubborn and dangerous. They’ve already murdered your field commander and fired on my familiar. They’ll resist you at every turn and will try to undermine your purpose. Why coddle them like this? And releasing the families of Rorka’s men, who might well have served as hostages to bend them to your will, that was—”

“Enough!” Klann cried. Several heads turned in the ward, observers self-consciously returning to their tasks almost at once. This day would be well marked, for rare indeed were the king’s appearances among them, and rarer still his public displays of anger. “Enough,” he said again more calmly, his mood shifting eerily. “We remind you of your duties. We have more than enough effete counselors to question royal mandates. We have our reasons for what we do, and they are sufficient. Leave us now. You have your work.”

Klann’s face became a blank mask as he began strolling toward the central keep. Mord bowed to his back obsequiously.

“I beg your forgiveness, my liege. I presume too much. But in an effort to appease your anger, may I remind you that it was I who divined the existence of this place, provided the intelligence required for the planning of its invasion, and the power by which the deed was done?” Mord’s voice reflected his conviction that an unjust slight had been done him. “All with your sanction at the time,” he appended.