Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two (52 page)

Tumo blared at the rebels in his excitement, which had begun to stir as soon as the soldiers had dressed him in his great plate armor. His kettle-sized helm bore a pair of animal horns that enhanced his atavistic presence.

Sweeping one horse and rider into the air on the skewering spikes, Tumo ran down another screaming man and squeezed him until blood issued from his mouth and ears, then flung him down and stamped him in a manner that caused even the mercenaries to flinch.

Men who tried to fight their way through the cordoning troops were dropped by arrow and pistol fire. And the wyvern swooped overhead, strafing individual runners,
skreeing
in triumph whenever its searing saliva and jetting corrosive waste would ravage a man or steed.

And when no rebels remained alive in the center of the city, the mercenary companies dispersing to engage remaining pockets of resistance, Mord directed the giant against people watching from windows. Shutters and doors were bashed in, and the bawling creature’s massive arms thrust inside dwellings and shops to crush and gouge even the un-militant, the innocent.

Then, to the surprise of the now thinned troops in the corpse-strewn market square, a band of militia and non-militants alike, led by Aldo Monetto, streamed out of the granite building that housed the weaving looms. They began to shout at the giant, some firing arrows and stolen pistols, others hurling rocks or hefting tools. One shaft struck the giant in the bulging fat of a thigh, causing him to yowl and charge toward the offender.

Aldo Monetto watched in helpless horror, knowing his axe would be useless against the monster. Squads of mercenaries began to return to the marketplace in response to the din. And the wyvern slashed down suddenly to strafe the scattering mob. Aldo thought he saw Roric, but then the figure disappeared. He had no idea what the council had decided to do. Few militiamen seemed to be taking part in the melee; yet the rebellion had begun. Where was Gonji? Aldo had to find him. Without Gonji they couldn’t succeed in this mad display of undirected anger.

* * * *

Captain Sianno returned to the market stalls, sought out the leering sorcerer standing atop the barouche.

“Mord, that’s enough,” the captain shouted.

“They need a good lesson,” the enchanter replied.

“Enough, I say! Their spirit is broken. They’ve suffered enough. This isn’t warfare. This is vile sport. Even animals wouldn’t sink to such brutality. Call off your beasts!”

Mord regarded him sullenly. He bowed, stiffly and not without a trace of mockery.

Calling out to Tumo to desist, making a sign in the air that caused the flying dragon to veer out toward the river with a final raucous cry, he climbed down from the coach. Sianno pulled on the reins and guided his horse away. He regarded the slaughter with a heavy heart and a military mind that knew the point of no return had been surpassed.

* * * *

The sorcerer watched him plod away. So close...so near to achieving his purpose had he been. Still there was a chance—the sounds of isolated conflict could be heard throughout the city. No. No, it would soon be brought under control, and the damnable captain had ended his effort at incitement before they could be driven mad enough. Mutual slaughter had to be inspired. Crush Vedun; break Klann.

Tumo lumbered up to the coach on his knuckles, crying like a timid child over his superficial wounds.

“There-there, my big fellow, don’t whine. Pull it out—pull the arrow out of your leg. Do it now, you sniveling coward, or it will hurt worse later!”

Tumo grasped the hunting shaft by its stole and gave it a tug. The barbed head tore his flesh as it was withdrawn, and the giant wailed in agony and began to sob, slumping to the ground with a jangling din like the collapse of a hardware hawker’s wagon.

* * * *

Flavio and Tralayn turned with the rest of the supplicants in the chapel when the doors flew open and the Llorm squad marched in. There were a few strained screams. Some people sobbed openly in fear of death. Women pulled their crying children close. Several people rose and formed a determined knot around the Elder and the prophetess, but Tralayn ordered them away.

The two looked deeply into each other’s eyes and exchanged a nod of resolution and mutual commitment to go peacefully with the arresting party.

Tralayn took the Elder’s hand and squeezed it in a finality of warmth and affection.

* * * *

Julian’s lieutenant, Ivar, headed up a party of mercenaries searching for Tralayn. They tried her house first, bursting through the door with drawn swords, their fears of her witch’s notoriety making them not a little anxious. Some of them grumbled. Accosting a witch was extremely hazardous duty that ought to earn them a bonus.

Their fears were soon allayed: the house was empty.

But then they caught sight of the awesome weapons slung over the mantel. They looked from one to the other, speechless, the huge pieces arousing primal fears none of them would care to voice later. As their leader, Ivar knew it was his duty to quell such nonsense as he now saw in their eyes. He puffed up his chest and strode to the fireplace.

“Make a good set of weapons for Tumo, eh? Just about his size—”

The brackets gave way at just that instant, and the huge pieces fell to the floor with a thunderous echo. The stillness in the parlor was almost a palpable thing.

“I’ll...come back for ’em later, eh?” They were already backing out, even as the tremulous words quivered Ivar’s lips.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The sounds of the revolt poured into Vedun’s skies. The din of battle reached Michael’s house on the Via Fidei, the main avenue near the center of the city, which, though surrounded by frenzied activity on all sides, was as yet fairly quiet, the eye of calm at the center of the clash.

Inside the Benedettos’: terror and confusion among the gathered refugees; concern for what was happening both without and within. For Gonji and Paille were by now irretrievably drunk. Gonji had fallen to vulgar introspection, snarling at those who would try to disturb his maudlin self-pity. Paille crashed about the house, blaring heraldic outcries. Wilf slumped on a settee, one leg hanging over its back. He seemed ill, his face twisted; he alternated between short fitful naps and glassy-eyed staring matches with Spine-cleaver, which lay across him.

Lydia wrung her hands as she peered through an upstairs shutter, Michael at her side, his face a mask of fear and indecision. She whimpered softly, an angry tear rolling down her face as they watched the search party enter Flavio’s manse farther down the Via Fidei.

“This is what your military preparedness has brought upon us,” she accused, sniffing and brushing away the tear.

Michael made no answer, just kept staring as the searching mercenaries left Flavio’s and clattered off with a howl toward the sounds of fighting at the market area.

They hurried down the stairs at the sound of beating on the rear door behind the kitchen. Michael set his sword in a nearby pantry and inched open the door—

Several militiamen stood without. Michael yanked the door open, and Monetto led them in—Roric Amsgard, Jiri Szabo, and three others.

“Where’s Gonji?” Monetto cried in a rush. “The rebellion’s on. Who gave an order?”

“Not I,” Michael declared.

“Nor any of us,” Roric agreed. “This is Phlegor’s doing, I’ll wager. We’ve got to decide what to do now. Most of the militia await an order, and I doubt Rorka’s heard yet, unless someone who was in the chapel when—”

“Roric—look!” Galioto the dairy farmer cried, standing in the archway to the parlor, staring in disbelief. Galioto was an intense and serious Sicilian who constantly complained of tension headaches from the way the world had of confounding his idea of how it ought to work. He, it was, who was the first to see Gonji in his deplorable state. Galioto grabbed his head and began shaking it hopelessly. “Oh, no, Gonji....”

The others surged into the parlor.

“Found your leader, have you?” Lydia said sourly at their backs.

Aldo Monetto rushed up to the now seated samurai. “
Gonji
—it’s begun, Gonji. We need you at the square—everywhere. They’re fighting, Gonji, fighting and dying with no plan, no organization....” He pulled Gonji upright, grasping his sweat-soaked tunic.

The samurai glared at him with watery red eyes. “What are you doing here?” Gonji slurred, grabbing Aldo’s wrist. “Why aren’t you training?”

“To the caverns!” Paille yelled.

“Hush yourself in my house, you drunken fool,” Lydia ordered, surging forward and pointing. Paille glowered at her.

The wyvern shrilled in the city’s skies. Somewhere: the bawling idiot roar of the cretin giant.

“Listen, Gonji,” Roric urged. “
Listen
—the
beasts
are here! Mord’s familiars. They’re destroying people in the streets. We’ve got to do something.” Whispers, and the shuffling of the terrified, surged through the house.

“Calm yourselves,” Michael directed. “Nothing can be accomplished by panic.”

Wilf pulled himself up and listened, casting about for something that apparently wasn’t there. The
katana
fell off his lap. He looked as if he’d vomit.

“The foul dragon,” Gonji breathed reverentially. Then he growled and surged to his feet. “Come,
bushi
—the time to fight is now!” He staggered forward two paces and stumbled, falling heavily. They looked from one to the other in desperation as they picked him up from the floor.

“Oh, Gonji—” Galioto whined, clutching his hair in both hands.

Paille leaped atop the Benedettos’ dining table. “To horse! Assemble the Hussars! Let freedom win the day! Someone bring me quill and scroll!”

“Get off there, you idiot,” Lydia shouted.

“Gonji, come on, we’ve got to get you—”

The samurai pushed them away violently, swung a backfist at Jiri, who ducked and tripped backward over a stool.

“Get hold of yourself, for God’s sake!” Roric stormed at him. “Get me an emetic,” he shouted at Lydia’s trembling cook, who hurried off in response.

Roric grabbed Gonji from behind in a bear hug, calling out for help. The samurai growled and broke the hold with a snap of arms and hips that knocked Roric back, his wind
whoofing
out of him. Monetto seized Gonji’s arm and hung on for dear life as the samurai began to claw for the Sagami. Jiri latched onto his other arm. Gonji tried to kick, but his sense of balance had long since fled.

“What are we going to do now?” Galioto cried, sagging into a chair, where he hunched forward.

Three of them now had a grip on Gonji and began to half-walk, half-drag him around the shambles of Michael’s parlor. The wyvern skirred over the house with a sucking rush of wind. A woman’s voice puled in prayer in another room. Paille stomped atop the table, marching back and forth, singing a French battle hymn, a taper held before him in lieu of a sword.

The cook’s emetic concoction arrived from the kitchen.

“Paille, get down from there before I knock you down,” Michael shouted, advancing.

“Benedetto’s joined the enemy!” The artist leaped down from the table and staggered behind the sofa, extending the candle in defiance. “I shan’t be taken without a fight!”

Roric poured the emetic down Gonji’s throat while the others held him. Gonji choked on it, gasping. Wilf was standing behind them now, his face askew. He stared dimly, trying to make sense of his surroundings. “Genya,” he whispered thickly. “Got to save Genya....”

“You’re not going anywhere,” Monetto ordered. “Someone grab Wilfred.” Two men took him by the arms and spoke gently to him, and he sat back down without a fight.

Gonji gagged at last on the emetic, having drained it off. They started to walk him around the room again, his arms around Jiri’s and Monetto’s necks. Lydia stood in a doorway, gazing on the scene in disgust. Her house stank like the Provender on harvest home.

“Give me my sword, you cowards,” the samurai blustered, sagging between the two
bushi.
Monetto and Jiri strained under his weight, his feet dragging.

There came a pounding at the rear door again.

“Merciful heavens!” the cook cried.

Lydia’s face contorted. “This is
madness
. Michael—this is your house—
do
something!
”

Michael turned around once, twice, tipped between helping them sober Gonji and responding to the knocking, which came again, this time more insistently. He moved to a wall cabinet, thrust it open and pushed aside a clutter of linens and tableware. Opening a secret panel in its rear, he withdrew a pistol. Lydia espied the weapon with shock, its presence unknown to her.

Michael cocked the pistol and strode through the kitchen, followed by Roric and Lydia. “Open that, please,” he said through tensed lips.

Lydia crossed herself as the butcher complied. The door swung open, and there stood Karl Gerhard, his English longbow at his side.