Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two (49 page)

The food was served, and he wolfed it down with no care for table manners, so eager was he to experience as quickly as possible the fullness of life. The Chief Botiler brought him a variety of wines to sample, discreetly limiting his consumption so that he might not disgrace himself on this first intemperate night.

Advisers, astrologers, and military people arrived; the ladies of court put in their most attractive appearances, vying with one another for the grandest entrances so that they might curry the Newly-Risen’s favor. But no one caused more of a furor with her appearance than the seductively clad Lady Thorvald, who glided along the chamber wall to stand at one end of the table set before the dais, leaning against a marble column with heaving bosom and expectation in her heavily painted eyes. Her nightdress had been chosen well to reveal her ample charms and still potent allure.

When he had finished his repast, Klann pushed the table away from him—too hard. It tilted over and crashed to the floor, servants hurrying to clean the mess even before the yelps of shock had died out. The newly emerged personage of Klann the Invincible felt the muscles in his arms.

“Yes...I am the Strong One. The one you’ve all awaited these many long years and despairing generations. The one who will at last bring you to your home...to Akryllon. There will be changes, make no mistake. I’m not like my soft Brother who feared shadows in the halls and brooked the slaughter of his men by conquered peoples. They will know
fear.
They will know
obedience.
We—will—not—be—defied!”

Klann was seized by the trembling and glazey stare that his most intimate confidants recognized as the trancelike state in which the internal Brethren communicated their counsel. But he began to growl in a most unseemly way, for a monarch, causing the more timid among them to back away. This the aged scribes, the keepers of Akryllon’s history, identified as the primitive wrath of the Tainted One, less diluted now by the rational caution of the remaining Brethren. A female voice passed Klann’s lips once, saying something in the Kunan tongue that was too garbled to understand. The court whispered in rapt fascination. But soon the rigidity of the seizure relaxed, and Klann’s eyes returned to the throne room.

It was at that point that the golden-masked sorcerer knifed into the room, courtiers scurrying to clear him a path. He bowed to the newly risen Klann.

“I await your word, my liege. What punishment shall we visit upon the brazen city that has caused you such suffering?”

Klann eyed him suspiciously a moment, then his gaze softened. “For the nonce, a tightening of the fist will suffice, I think. Perhaps a change in local government....”

Mord’s fathomless eyes reflected a certain disappointment. “It was that devious sorceress who likely did this to you, and—”

“Yes,” Klann interrupted. “Have her arrested. I should like to hear these superstitions she spreads from her own lips before I seal them.
And
her defense of what you accuse.”

There was instant muttering at this bold command, experience reminding the more sage among them of the danger of such a radical measure.

“Sire,” one of the advisers spoke up, “isn’t that rather extreme before the facts be known—?”

“Extreme?”
Klann exploded, charging at the man. “What is extreme? Did not your king
die
in their city? Have they not opposed our every wish? I have a plan for these militant people, and it begins—what is
this?
What have you brought me here?”

A Llorm corporal-of-guards came forward, knelt, and indicated the toothless old man he dragged along with him. “Milord, this old fool has, I think, intelligence of an urgent nature.”

The old man shambled forward and squinted at Klann, who made a face back at him that caused the court to chuckle. “Come-come-come, what is this all about?”

“Are you...Baron Rumka?” the doddering man inquired uncertainly, squeezing his cap between sere brown hands.

There was instant laughter, mixed with gasps at the senile faux pas, when the words were translated into Kunan. The Llorm guard cuffed the old man on the side of the head. “I’ve already told you whom you’re addressing, you idiot! Just tell the king what you told me.”

“This had best be worth our while,” Klann warned the soldier.

With the Llorm’s prompting the man related the tale of the ambush he’d seen, perpetrated by the militia. Klann’s ears reddened as he listened. The room buzzed with translations.

“Bandits!” he cried at last. “Bandits—do you hear that, you military experts? Why aren’t they working for
us?
Has the whole province gone mad? What kind of bandits, old fool? Turks?”

“Oh, no, sire,” the old codger whined, “just...bandits.” He grinned and cocked his head, a vapid cast to his ancient eyes.

“Where is that outpost?” Klann asked of his advisers.

“I think the leader was Mongol...
da
, that’s it,” the man babbled on, only now no one was listening as the king spoke with his military leaders. The corporal-of-guards began to push him back toward the archway and double door.

“It must be at the Borgo Pass, sire.”

“Yes, that’s it. Is it strategically useful to us—?”

“
Da
, a Mongol—” the old man continued as the Llorm strove to calm him.

“Quiet now, you silly old bastard, His Majesty’s speaking.”

Klann walked with hands behind his back. “You’d best fortify it again with better men. And check
all
the outposts in the marches. Raise the wage for outpost duty to attract better men. We can afford the additional numbers by now, surely—”

“A Mongol with—with—with his hair tied up on his head like a tulip bulb—” The Llorm had the old man’s arm twisted and was carrying him off.

“Wait!”

Klann had heard. And understood.

He had the farmer brought back in to repeat what he had just said. An interpreter rendered it all into Kunan, at the king’s behest. Whispers and gasps. Klann was staring at Julian, smiling evilly.

The captain of mercenaries had blanched. He swallowed hard, trembling.

“Soooo, Kel’Tekeli,” Klann said as he approached him slowly. “The man with hair tied like a tulip bulb on top of his head. Your spy, eh? Yes, my fine captain paid good gold to the leader of these rogues who’ve been marauding in the roads and marches! Just like your father, aren’t you? Leave it to a Kel’Tekeli to sell out reason and logic to anyone who’ll promise him power! I dare say, you needn’t purchase any more intelligence from your faithful employee Gonji. I think you’ve gotten your gold’s worth.” He glared hard at Julian, who looked as though he had swallowed a rat. “
Get that damnable oriental
—and hang the old man, the
august
Council Elder! His
bodyguard
, indeed,” Klann sneered.

“Have I said anything to anger the baron?” the old man queried in a small, weak voice, having understood nothing that had been said.

“Silence, you fool!”

“No, let him speak,” Klann told them. “He’s the only one providing answers around here, and you idiots haven’t the sense to listen to him. Men like this old peasant are running you all in circles—feed him, give him wine. See, Julian, what information I’ve gleaned without having parted with a single piece of gold!”

Julian had known no greater embarrassment in all his days of sterling service to his liege lord. He left the castle that night with blood in his eyes—and the face of Gonji in his head, on which his imagination visited agonies as formless as they were unspeakable.

* * * *

Mord stood alone with Klann in the king’s private chambers, the auburn-haired wench having been banished, once the king had taken his pleasure with her. The sorcerer had studied the king’s seizure with profound interest, seen in his eyes, heard in his outcries things both promising and unsettling to him.

Her
counsel—that of the lioness to come—was troublesome to the dark enchanter’s plans. But the bawling cries of the mindless one could well be an indication of potential assistance to the Grand Scheme from the unlikeliest place of all: within the persons Klann themselves....

And now the king was speaking....

“Now that my weaker Brother is out of the way, I think we’re of one mind as to how to handle these rebellious folk, Mord.”

“Oh, indeed we are, sire.”

“Mord, I want results—soon—on the charm of division you seek. The Brethren must be separated. I want to know the feeling of precious aloneness. I want only my own counsel in my head....”

Oh, yes, hopeless fool, the Brethren shall emerge in full. One way or another.
Beneath his gold mask, Mord’s lipless mouth smiled its terrible smile.

* * * *

In the cellar where they had practiced their battle skills for days, Phlegor and his faithful craft guild followers met in secret conclave.

“All right—Klann is dead,” the feisty guildsman told them. “Of that we’re sure. Now is the time to strike.”

First one man assented, then another, and soon the cellar burned with determination and blood-rage.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Lydia’s cook started at the rapid pounding on the rear door. Her hands went to her throat as she leaned against the pot-bellied stove, burning her behind and emitting a sharp, strangled cry.

“What’s the matter?” Lydia asked, entering the kitchen, her face drawn by sleeplessness but now animated with concern.

The sharp rap came again at the lower door panel, and the cook could only stare. Lydia moved to the door stiffly and peered out the shutter. There were several horses tethered in the courtyard but no one in sight; the gate was shut. She opened the door a crack and gasped as two bodies tumbled in—Wilf and Gonji, sword scabbards scraping on the floor. Hoofbeats resounded down the back lane.

“Close it, please,” Gonji ordered.

She complied. Then the night’s horrors came back to her in a rush. “Omigod—have you heard what’s happened? Michael!” she shouted, rousing her husband, who lay napping with his head on his arms in the dining room.

A babble of sleepy voices as they all moved into the parlor—

“We’ve heard,” Wilf replied curtly.

“Michael,” Gonji engaged the protege, “quickly, tell me the current military status—and, good lady, so sorry,” he added to Lydia, “but we’ve not eaten since yesterday. If you could—”

“
Sí
, of course.” She called out a string of directions to the terrified cook. As Michael explained the martial law situation with much face-rubbing and anxious posturing, food was brought to them. Several people slumped in the parlor, dispirited, men and women alike, a few from the tragic banquet, and a couple of militiamen who were friends of Michael. There was no milk to be had this morning, so they drank ale and wine.

Gonji listened while he filled his belly, thinking, calculating.

A knock at the front door caused them all to scramble, but Gonji commanded them to relax and keep their places. He and Wilf concealed their
katanas
behind the sofa. Then the samurai waved for Michael to open the door. The first soft hues of dawn flooded the aperture, the chirrups of birds combining with them to bathe the figure that stood there in a heavenly aura.

Paille burst into the foyer.

“What’s the word, Michael?—Gonji! I thought you might be here. I’ve spoken with some of the foray party. They tell me you met with splendid success.
Vive la liberte!
”

“Calm yourself, Paille. The streets are filled with soldiers,” Michael cautioned.

“
Oui
, frightened ones,” the artist-poet declared, sitting and helping himself to the wine. “Do you know what the invaders are say—”

“
Hai.
And our sally into Zarnesti
was
successful, as you’ve heard,” Gonji said. “Everyone back alive. But no time for that now. Michael, tell me, what have you and Garth decided? How are the people talking?”

“How do you expect them to be talking? Their resolve has been shaken by this madness. No one even knows what’s going on yet.
I
don’t even know, except that—”

“You mean you and Garth haven’t thought how vulnerable the occupation force is, with this talk of Klann dying?”

“Vulnerable?” Michael laughed shakily. “That’s ridiculous. You can’t be seriously considering attacking them
now—!
”

Gonji set down his goblet. Hard. “Of course,
now.
They must be—”

“Listen to what you’re saying,” Lydia broke in, aghast. “It’s perfect
madness
.”