Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two (21 page)

“
Hai
, but—”

“Then it must be true. But can I also have misinterpreted the identity of the Deliverer?” she thought aloud, eyes clouding over, their vision filling with things denied the rest of them. “Can you—to us an infidel—be the promised Deliverer?”

“Whoa, lady!” Gonji said somberly. “Keep me out of your wild visions. If even half this business is true, you people are in more trouble than you know. I’m not sure that it’s my karma to become involved any more than I am already. Anyway, I’ve my
own
visions to interpret, so sorry. And there’s nothing strange about my birthing,” he concluded, vaguely threatening.

A resolute expression appeared in the hard-set lines of Tralayn’s firm jaw. “Garth, I must ask your sons and the good Milorad to leave, please. It’s a matter of oath.”

Shock pervaded the room. Milorad emitted a querulous grunt and sat bolt upright, now wide awake. Flavio half rose as if he would object but sat back with grim resignation to see Tralayn’s determined air of command. He nodded dolefully to his friend and counselor that he must leave. Garth held his breath a few anxious seconds, then in a small voice directed his reluctant sons to remove themselves from the house until called for. Milorad shuffled out behind them, his dignity wounded.

The doors and shutters were closed tight. Tralayn stood at the center of them. Flavio, Garth, Michael and Lydia regarded her with eyes like those of startled forest animals. Gonji looked expectant, hands on knees.

Tralayn said portentously: “I fear we’ve lost the help of Simon Sardonis.”

There was not a wisp of breathing in the smith’s parlor. Gonji eased backward on his stool, a sly expression of vindication spreading slowly over his angular features. The room lay ablaze with tension and horrified faces.

CHAPTER NINE

Mord sat before the blood-stained altar, the Book of Philtres open before him to the complex charm of sympathetic-imitative magick he sought. Behind him, shackled head downward from the ceiling, hung the servant, her keening wail filling him with evil heat. His loins flared as he listened to the slow drip of her vital fluids.

The spell called for an adynamic victim, and such subjects were easy to find in his present circumstances. A difficult ritual, but he was becoming better at it all the time as he pressed forward with the Grand Plan. He felt the imputation of dark power, almost stunned by its dizzying thrill. Removing his mask, he performed the chant, drowning out her pain-wracked screaming.

On the altar lay crop samples from the fields and orchards of the lowlands. Mord began to breathe over them rhythmically, and there issued from his mouth a thick, roiling black smoke that caressed the altar, stealing the objects from view, consuming....

* * * *

Sullen gray eyes, eyes blazing with hate, watched from concealment the fuming vapor that descended over the nighted farmland outside the walls of Vedun. Puzzlement furrowed the man’s brow as he saw the fog separate, break up, as if with an eerie prescience all its own, rolling over certain fields and furrows, leaving others untouched.

A distant sound. Clumping horse hooves. Two mercenaries, speaking in whispers, rode toward him, watching the fog from the road. Their whispering rasped sharply in the stillness; all wildlife had withdrawn deep into the forest.

He reached back and felt the place where the arrow had pierced his buttock. Already nearly healed. But it had been painful, and they had done it. Just as they’d killed the boy. And then done the unspeakable thing, the outrage at the monastery. He glared upward at the distant castle spires.

Satan’s minions had done it. And Hell would be repaid.

The beast within mocked him, and he cursed it back to its curling place, that place he would cut out by his own hand if he knew where inside him it reposed.

He sprinted along the tree line, the death wish burning inside him.

* * * *

“D’you believe in him? I never believed in him. Not before tonight. Not even with the big birdie, or Tumo.” The mercenary shook his head. He removed his sallet and drew an arm across his sweating brow. A chill shook him. “But look at it. He said he’d do it and he done it.” He replaced the sallet.

“Shut up,” his partner replied. “You talk too much.”

“Sure.” A cloud covered the moon, and a gloomfast stillness gripped the plateau. “Well, just what we need now. Get lost in the dark and stumble into that...mist.” His breath came in short gasps, fear clutching at his heart. “If Klann knew anything about this, about what Mord’s doin’....”

“Why don’t you just shout it out?”

“All right, all right, I know. We’re sworn. I won’t cross him. Not no more. Not after I seen what he done to Lonzo’s feet. Uh-uh. You say that chant of his? Say it and really mean it?” His head wagged negatively; in the dark he couldn’t see his partner’s hand, cautioning him to silence. “I never did. Never really meant it before. I will now, though, I tell you. That’s for—”

“Hssst! Shut up. Listen. Did you hear that?”

The horses began to snort and curvette, stamping fretfully.

“What? What? I didn’t hear nothin’!”

“Shut up, you damn fool!”

“What
is
it? What do you hear?” he shouted.

And then his steed bolted, whinnying fiercely. His sallet flew off and he lost the stirrups, clung to the reins with one slipping hand and tried desperately to dig into the animal’s flanks. The frenzied beast shook him loose, and he fell heavily on his back, stunned, the breath knocked out of him.

His partner howled maniacally, and with a strange nightmarish detachment the soldier stared at the blood-slicked arm, severed at the elbow, that bounced wetly beside him. A mindless moan, cut short by a sharp splintering sound and a jangling crash as horse and rider fell.

He tried to rise, gibbering oaths and half-remembered prayers of protection, and then his shrieking, bolting horse tumbled backward onto him, a twitching carcass.

He shrieked, his leg broken, but in his terror he fought through the nauseating pain and tried frantically to pull free from under the imprisoning bulk.

And then he saw the tall figure, saw the whites of his eyes and the dull glint of clenched teeth. Saw the darkly streaked sword that had been his partner’s.

His jaws jacked open unnaturally as he gagged, seeing the wide, blood-freezing arc of steel. And then he saw no more.

* * * *

Gonji felt a mixture of triumph and indignance, a heady blend that he wore imperiously as he strutted back and forth, hands clasped at the back of his
obi.

“So many connivers,” Gonji said wryly. “I wouldn’t have guessed.”

Only Tralayn made eye contact with him. “You take things far too personally. We are under the burden of a solemn oath regarding Simon.”

“The awesome mystery man,” Gonji guessed aloud, feeling that effusion of thrill in his spine that hinted at fulfillment of his destiny. “The one who killed Ben-Draba and confounded a whole company of Klann’s soldiers in his escape.”

“The same,” Tralayn confirmed.

“He’ll be badly injured now.”

“It...probably won’t last.” Tralayn drew a deep breath. “Even now I’m not sure how much I dare tell you of him. What is your connection with Father Dobret?”

He started to shake off any knowledge of whom she meant, but then he paused. He’d heard the name spoken before. It was the priest who came monthly to Vedun from the ravaged monastery. But why should he know him? Ahh...there could be only one reason—

“The white-haired priest at the monastery? The one who gave me the message?”

“Sí.”

“I...tried to do him a favor once.”

Tralayn puzzled over Gonji’s evasive words.

“What is happening at the monastery, Gonji?” Flavio asked. “No one is allowed through the Borgo Pass. Soldiers posted there turn everyone away.”

“I’ll say no more of that until you’ve told me more of Simon.” Gonji’s bearing was arrogant, adamant. They looked uneasily from one to the other.

“We swore an oath,” Lydia reminded, staring into space.

“Which my brother died keeping,” Michael added severely.

Gonji thought about the beating incident, brow darkening. “The key—
that’s
where I saw it before. So you do know what that key is for, the one Mord seems so worried about.”

Michael and Lydia shifted in their seats. Garth gazed at the floor sullenly. Flavio seemed on the verge of saying something, looking to Tralayn almost imploringly for guidance.

“He has asked of Simon Sardonis, dear Flavio. He has been led unerringly from afar to this place. The timing—his insistence—his actions on behalf of a people who are strange to him—it can only mean that the Lord God has purposed that he shall have a part in our righteous battle. Sabatake Gonji-no-Sadowara—I have reason to trust you, to believe in your good intentions toward Vedun. We are planning to raise a militia, to bring an underground army into readiness to deal with the invaders and Mord’s hellish minions, when the time has come. We need your battle skills, your dauntless spirit to help in the training and in the conflict itself. In return we will pay you what you require. And...in time I will tell you all you wish to know of Simon Sardonis. Do you accept the charge?”

From the moment she had addressed him by his proper full name he had become intrigued, his heart quickening as she laid out the bold proposal, though his face showed none of it. He inhaled sonorously, his brow overhung with the gravity of his pondering, part of the propriety due so earnest a request. All the while his mind reeled, and his own reply startled him even more:

“
Iye
—no, so sorry, I think not.”

Even as he spoke the words he marveled at the aloofness of their sound, and only after the rejection left his lips did the reasoning become fully framed in his mind. It was the game; ever the psychological warfare, the social game-playing he had learned to pursue with keen interest. Indeed, it was often necessary to survival to maintain this edge, this one-upmanship that kept the other party off balance. In reality he was eager to accept this lofty position he had been offered, which he equated with a generalship.

The
kami
of
good fortune smiles on you, Gonji-san. But why do I want
it?
he wondered. What am I playing for? The money? Blast the money to hell! For friendship, affection, admiration?
Hai
, there is that. They have awakened in me feelings I’ve not felt in a long time. But also...for
meaning
to a worthless
ronin
existence. The landless, dutiless wanderer is lower than the lowest grave-digger. So it is for meaningful duty that I will accept. And having accepted, it will be for
acceptance
that I will strive....

“I think conflict is inevitable. And if I commit myself to this thing I will probably die here, and my quest will have come to nothing.”

He gauged their reactions with relish as he paced solemnly about the room. Tralayn studied him, a confused tilt to her head. “I don’t understand you,” she said.

Garth and Flavio, seated next to each other, flashed a similar disappointment and mild surprise, which he found gratifying. From the settee on which the Benedettos sat came a flicker of interest. Michael registered a quiet, breathless satisfaction. Lydia’s patrician poise and refinement allowed little of the nature of her interest to show. Relief, he decided, was uppermost in her tightly drawn lips, the languid calming of her blue eyes.

“But I’ll think on it, ponder the consequences,” the samurai concluded, twisting the knife.

“Will you at least tell me now the message you bear Simon?” Tralayn asked earnestly.

Gonji stopped pacing. “Oh no, clever lady, that is my trump. Why don’t you instead tell me something I don’t already know of him?” A cold recollection welled up. Hadn’t Julian asked him the same question not long ago?
Tell me something I don’t already know....

Tralayn sighed and looked at the others.

“That’s for him to decide, Tralayn,” Michael cautioned.

“And it was for me to decide whether to bring in your brother’s body,” Gonji reminded, rankled a bit at his hostility, “if I may so callously call up the memory.”

Michael’s bruised eyes dropped in shame.

“It was a solemn oath we swore,” Tralayn said resignedly.

“I thought you said he was gone now. So what would be the harm?”

“I’m not really sure. He
said
he was leaving us....”

“What is the Deathwind, Tralayn?” Gonji asked imperiously. The room fell silent. “Is Simon Sardonis the Deathwind I’ve sought all these terrible years in Europe?” He strove to control his sudden trembling, the pace of his heart.

Tralayn stared deeply into his eyes. “I don’t know about that. By the cross of Christ I swear that I cannot be sure. He fits certain ramifications of the legends, yet he’ll not answer to being the thing of which they speak.” Her jaw set with a sudden determination, her eyes becoming green embers. “I will say no more of him now.
You
must proffer your commitment to the city. I will tell you this: Vedun is committed to readiness. The people are prepared to die for their faith and their city. Warriors, tacticians, leaders are needed. You would not be alone—” A coy look crept across her face. “Baron Rorka lives.”