Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two (48 page)

“No one is sure whether it’s true,” Gonji concluded, in an attempt to calm them. “It was thought best to keep the tale under wraps. Now, though...that decision may weigh against us, if the people’s confusion causes them to balk at action. But we still don’t know whether it’s true.”

Tralayn advanced gravely, “I must say that I’m inclined to believe it now. At least we must act as if it were true, because that’s what the Llorm are saying. Mord has manipulated well. Satan’s minions do not lack for cunning. To Klann, he has created the appearance of a city cold and cruel enough to mask regicide behind the sacrifice of their own children. And he’s made the populace fear him still more in thinking he has the power of life and death, that he alone raised Klann from the grave.”

“
Mord
murdered him?” Gonji asked, his face twisting.

“Of course—who else?”

“But
why
, Tralayn? How can that possibly serve his purpose of eliminating the city—”

The
bushi
stood by, whispering translations for those who needed them, murmuring in shock at these portentous concepts.

“—killing the supreme military leader?” Gonji shook his head in disbelief.

“Who knows the workings of the diabolical mind?”

“He can’t get away with it...can he?” Wilf offered hopefully at Gonji’s side.

“Perhaps not,” Tralayn agreed, considering. “Perhaps this time he’s taken on too much. But it matters nothing if you cannot get the city to oppose him. And
now
is the time, Gonji—now it must be done! The troops—even the Llorm—seem in disarray. The mercenaries grumble amongst themselves in fear of lost wages. The army’s morale is at low ebb. You must meet with the council. Plans must be made swiftly, the evacuation to the catacombs begun even as the battle rages. And Gonji—” she paused breathily “—you
must
confront the Deliverer of whom we’ve spoken. Tell him he must help us at all costs. Tell him it was my dying wish—”

“Forget your unwilling hero!” Gonji railed. “
I
am your Deliverer,
neh?
Who has sacrificed the most with the least to gain in this bloody venture?” Then he composed himself. “What do you mean your...‘dying wish’?”

“I shall not be with you again,” she said evenly. “The evil sorcerer will have his way with me. Just one more confrontation. Perhaps I can make Klann see the truth, if things be as Garth says. Mord will see this city destroyed. He bears it a grudge fortified by centuries of hatred. Scrolls found hidden in the chapel tell of great evil forces which twice before besieged Christian communities in Vedun. And the last time, centuries ago, a demonic sorcerer was disfigured by militant priests, branded so that men would recognize him wherever he roamed. But in their zeal they fought evil with evil and were ultimately destroyed by malevolent forces. They are gone, but the
branded
one lives on, wearing a mask to conceal his disfigurement. It is
Mord
, and he will not rest while stone lays upon stone in Vedun.”

“Jesu...,”
someone breathed. The foul air was making their breaths come in gasps.

“Go now, and do what you must,” Tralayn said. “Be firm in faith and courage, and strong of arm.”

Anton moaned somewhere below.

“We can’t all go the long way around,” Gonji declared. “We’ve injured men who need attention.” He scratched his neck, nerves and anger erupting all over his body. “
All-recht
—two-thirds of you go back through the tunnels to the cavern and brief the baron. Tell him I’ll be back later to work with him on the plan, once I’ve spoken with the others. Spread the word that we’re on evacuation alert, but everyone must go to their jobs until they’ve heard official word of...anything else. If nothing’s happened, meet me back at the cavern tonight. The rest of you come with me—those who kept any weapons, come along this way. Bring Anton up.”

Enervating fear gripped them, and no one moved.

“Let’s go,” Roric commanded. “We haven’t time for weak spines now. You’re past all that.”

They were galvanized. Anton was passed up with some difficulty.

“I’ve told you, you can’t come through this way,” Tralayn admonished. “The house is being—”

“Then you’re going to have to leave,” Gonji said quietly. “So sorry, milady, but if you leave, they will follow. Then we may be able to sneak away singly or in pairs. You’ll be in violation of curfew....” His words trailed off.

She thought a moment, then bowed her head. When they were in her parlor—nine men, counting the injured knight—the fireplace was resealed. With a final farewell, Tralayn was gone into the night, headed for the chapel, where she knew Flavio would be.

They watched her furtively from the windows. Sure enough, a small mounted party followed her, keeping her just in sight down the lanes. One mercenary strolled over and began to mount the steps to the house. Gonji cautioned them to silence. The soldier stopped halfway up and sat, drew out a pipe and lit it.

Seconds later Gonji peered out from behind the rear corner of the house, glancing around the area circumspectly. He timed the pace of the Llorm crossbowmen on the ramparts, then went back inside.

“Let’s go,” he ordered. “Make it to the alleys and you’re safe for a space. Remember, it’s after curfew. If you’re stopped you’d either better have a damned good story or you’ll have to try to take them. Get Anton and Stefan to Verrico. Keep your ears open for word from the council. If you’ve heard none, then meet me at the cavern tonight.”

They slipped out the window, making Anton as comfortable as possible. A loose tile on the sill, dislodged by Foristek, shattered on the stone pavement. They froze, eyes prying at their sockets, heard the rasp of steel from the steps. If the guard cried out....

The mercenary reached the corner of the house, blade raised high overhead. “All right—” he growled low.

Then Gonji’s clamping hand clutched his throat, tearing a small keening whine of air from the vacuum of his gaping mouth. The guard flew over Gonji’s hip, landing hard with a clatter of armor and the bounding sound of the loosed sword. In seconds he was dead. Gonji dragged his body into the deep shadow of the house.

Two horses trotted up along the street from the direction of the granary that now billeted free companions. Gruff voices argued in the stillness.

“Go!” Gonji whispered. They all darted away into the darkness, two of them bearing the moaning Anton between them. But Wilf edged up behind Gonji.

They both readied for a spring, hands on sword hilts. The clacking hooves stamped by, sparking off the paving stones twenty feet from the concealed pair. A pistol-grip glinted in a broad belt. The mercenaries talked on, disputing hotly in a language Gonji didn’t know. Then they were gone toward the east.

Gonji tapped the smith, and they pulled the dead mercenary into the back lane, looking about frantically for a place to hide him. They abandoned the effort when the crossbow quarrel shattered against a hut, just above Wilf’s head. An eagle-eyed rampart sentry had spotted the dim figures far below and was now pointing them out to his partner.

“Dear God in heaven,” Wilf gurgled.

“Run!” Gonji spat.

And they were off in a low crouch, as if all the Seven Devils cackled behind.

* * * *

“Genya—Genya, I must speak with you.”

“Hush, now, Richard,” she replied, “something’s afoot.” All the servantry had been roused by the fearful tumult that swept the castle. Richard had come up behind Genya in the vaulted chamber in the central keep, now alive with a flurry of activity.

“Genya—Lottie’s gone,” the baker persisted, his voice pained.

“What? Gone...where?” She gave him her full attention now.

“I—I don’t know. She’s disappeared. I haven’t seen her in two days now. Early yesterday morning one of the scullions saw her in a corridor of the southeast drum tower and—”

“The one where the sorcerer stays?” Genya queried, grimacing.

“
Da
—and that’s the last anyone saw of her. Genya, you’ve got to help me look for her. I’m
scared.
”

“All right, all right, relax. We’ll search as we can.”

“I’ve already searched the larders and pantries and stables—the gardens she sometimes tends—and I’ve worked my way over to the armorer’s tower and the prison tower, but—I—I—”

“Why haven’t you tried Mord’s tower, where she was seen?” Genya asked in a strained voice.

“You know I haven’t any reason to be about there. I was hoping....”

“That
I’d
try there, is that it?”

“Da, ”
he gasped, excited, “could you?”

She’d thought as much. Richard wasn’t noted for his valor. She clutched at the neck of her robe, pulling it close, recalling the foul magician’s hungry looks.

“Well, I...I suppose.”

“Oh, Genya, you’re marvelous!”

Da, thanks a heap
, she thought as he leaned over to kiss her cheek. But then she stopped him with a hand on his chest. She moved forward a step, staring like the others at the strange figure that strode into the chamber, parting the milling servantry before him.

* * * *

The castellan, General Gorkin, roused his wife from sleep. “Stir yourself, good lady, and attend on us—hurry!”

She rubbed at her heavy-lidded eyes. “Are you out of your mind? What hour is this?”

“Never mind, just get up—there’s been a new Rising.” His words were weighted with near religious awe.

“Wha-a-a-t?” She was fully awake. “The king is
dead?
”

“Yes—poisoned in Vedun. We’ve a new monarch to...break in. Perhaps we can start on the good side of this one, eh?”

“
I
shall have no trouble there,” she declared haughtily. “
You’re
the buffoon who can never read his moods. Ah, I shall immediately prevail upon Thorvald to use her ‘charms’ to seduce him to let us stay in this place forever—that’s a laugh.”

“Mind your tongue,” Gorkin said, combing out his hair and beard in the mirror. “Have you no sensitivity? The scion of the Akryllonian throne has again given a life in the pursuit of his people’s home.”

“Oh, screw your Akryllon. Who can love a home they’ve never seen?”

“Have a care, lady,” he warned, “the servants are everywhere. I’ve got to go turn out the royal grooms.”

“Royal grooms,” she sneered. “Has anyone told Thorvald yet? Bel! She’ll have an orgasm just thinking about her new possibilities!”

“Hush! Get yourself ready.”

“Oh, shut up and do what you have to do, Sten. I’ll be along with all my courtly grace....”

* * * *

Klann stared into each mirror in turn in the counseling chamber, which his dead Brother had reappointed as a throne room. He touched every part of him that reflected back, gazing with the innocent bewilderment of the newly un-blinded. His hair was black as jet, here and there touched by strands of gray that he found not unappealing. It was long and wild and tangled, streaming down his back in a lifetime’s growth. His wavy beard similarly coursed down to his waist. His eyes were a deep, piercing brown, narrow and close-set. His face was sharply chiseled, with an aquiline nose and pointed chin. His body was taller, more slender than that of his predecessor, erect and dignified, his posture plank-like. The long, curled fingernails on both hands, by now half broken off in his passion to touch the stuff of physical life, lent him an eerie oriental bearing.

“All new,” he spoke, the dozens of people crowded into the throne room following his every movement, hanging on every utterance. “Everything new...all apprehended only...second-hand before. Ohhh...I’m going to like this life.”

To those who listened, the assertion sounded foreboding.

“You can’t know—none of you can know—what it’s like to
feel
your kin
die
, crying out in their anguish, seizing upon your life essence for—” But abruptly the spell was gone. Then: “Bring me food—I’m ravenous! A sampling of everything the kitchens can deliver on short notice. The king demands it!” Servants scrambled to do his bidding, running into each other in their haste. The new Klann laughed to see the result of his every spoken whim. The room was cleared of all but his advisers.

The grooms came forward then to attend on him. These personal servants of the king were Akryllonian nationals who had been schooled from birth in the ritual grooming of a newly risen King Klann. The generation before them had no opportunity to use the traditionally passed ritual. In times past, many generations had gone by without a Death and Rising of Klann. These grooms would long retell the proud tale of how they had trimmed the beard and hair of the newly risen king, how they had manicured him, bathed and dressed him in his finest raiment, setting, at last, the Diadem of the House of Bel upon his brow.