Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two (53 page)

Michael breathed a sigh and lowered the gun.

“Michael—Roric—!” the dour archer uttered in surprise. “The people are in revolt—there’s no one to lead them—”

“Has the militia turned out?” Michael said.

“Most of them are waiting for official word, I think. The craftsmen started it and...and now it seems there’s no turning back.” Gerhard moved into their midst, someone closing the door behind them. He continued in a grim whisper. “The beasts are here, gentlefolk. They’re killing people at the square. We’ve
got
to do something.”

Cries came from the parlor. “A chamber pot—quickly!”

The cook came charging through, retrieving the pot from the garderobe and rushing back with it—too late. The sounds of Gonji’s heaving came to them. Lydia walked back into the kitchen slowly, eyes closed, jaw trembling.

“Gonji’s in there,” Michael said.

“What?”

“Indisposed, I’m afraid.”

Gerhard grabbed Michael’s arm. “He’s to be arrested. Soldiers are searching for him, on Captain Kel’Tekeli’s order. They’ll
kill
you if he’s found hiding here!”

“Mother of God,” Galioto prayed, listening from the doorway.

“We’ve got to get him out of here,” Gerhard said. “Michael, you and Roric must get to the market stalls and give them some kind of leadership. They’re dying out there like—like animals.” Karl pushed through to the parlor, saw the grotesque spectacle there.
“Himmel,”
he muttered.

Michael and Roric looked at each other, and the protege slowly stuffed the pistol into his belt. They nodded their resolve and lashed on sword belts and baldrics.

“Michael!” Lydia shouted, horrified. “Michael, don’t go—
please!
”

“It’s our duty,” he replied. “We must. I’ll...I’ll try to put an end to it.” Lydia stared through the space he vacated as Michael and Roric went to the cellar and returned with helms and half-armors, buckling them on. A moment later they were gone into the night aboard two steeds from the courtyard.

Gerhard and Monetto gazed in mutual astonishment at the vulgar spectacle the amazing oriental warrior had made of himself. He lay face down, snoring sonorously, the smeared effects of his retching all around him. Both knew, even from what little they had absorbed of the tenets of
bushido
, that there would be a terrible price to pay for his loss of self-control this night. If he survived....

“We’ve got to clean him up, Aldo, get him away from this. He’s—”

“Soldiers are coming!” a man cried from a window. “They’re searching house to house.”

Gerhard stiffened. “I saw them earlier—didn’t think they’d reach this street so fast.”

“What’ll we do?” Monetto asked, panting in his fear. “We can’t let them take him like this.”

“I know—I know—Lydia, is there any place we can hide him?”

“Nowhere,” she replied. “You’ve got to get him out of here. And then all of you—go out and help Michael.”

Monetto looked around: the rest here would be of no help. Paille had slumped against the wall behind the sofa, his head lolling on his chest. Wilf was deeply asleep. A few others cowered behind wild, bulging eyes.

“The cellar,” the biller said in sudden inspiration. “Let’s see what they’ve got in the cellar.”

They raced down the stairs and rooted about.

“There’s nowhere to hide him down here,” Gerhard complained.

“I’m not looking to hide him, idiot. We need something to carry him off in.” He ran his hand over the top of a bulky old armoire.

Gerhard shook his head. “That’s too damn heavy. We couldn’t even carry that thing through the streets
empty
.”

“How about this?” Monetto fished up a pile of Lydia’s old clothes from a wooden crate. “We could dress him up in—” He saw Karl’s look of ridicule and dropped the garments.

Then they spotted the brine barrel. It had been used for pickling, and its stench, when the lid was removed, welled up at them, overpowering.

“Whoo!”
Gerhard breathed. “Forget it.”

“No-no, this is just what we need. Help me get it up the stairs.”

With a skeptical frown the hunter complied. They poured the reeking liquid out onto the cellar floor and carried the barrel up without much trouble. Under Lydia’s perplexed stare they dragged Gonji into the kitchen, washed him off, and wrestled him into the barrel, folded into a fetal position. His swords were dropped in with him.

“Hurry—they’re coming here next!”

Gerhard pounded the lid into place after splintering three hasty breathing holes. They could hear Gonji groaning within. Then there was a banging at the rear door again. Karl swiftly nocked an arrow and pulled back on the bow. The first man through was marked for death. But when Monetto flung open the oaken door and raised his axe, its lethal edge was angled at a flinching citizen.

“Are you
crazy
, Monetto? Signora Benedetto—Michael’s been hurt!”

“Wha-a-a-t?”
Lydia cried, rushing up to them. “Oh, dear God—where? How?”

“An arrow, I think—he’s at Signore Vargo’s.”

“Go, Lydia,” Monetto urged, pushing her to the door. “That’s where we’ll meet you—at Milorad’s.”

Michael’s wife rushed out with the messengers, but they all jostled to a sudden halt: two mercenaries rode through the opened gate and into the courtyard, blades drawn.

“Where you people going?” a gruff voice called out.

“My husband—!” Lydia shrieked at him. “He’s been hurt.”

But before the words were finished, the first shaft sizzled through the air from the cracked-open shutters and a mercenary was torn backward off his saddle. The second soldier lurched his whinnying steed and swung toward the gate. Gerhard leapt out onto the portico, nocking and launching in one motion—the second man spilled over onto the horse’s neck as it bolted out into the street.

“Drag that body into the lane, far from the house,” Karl whispered harshly. Two men complied, another catching Lydia in her swoon, hurrying her toward the gate.

“Go on, get moving!” Galioto ordered from the parlor arch. “I’ll try to put them off when they come.” He shook his aching head, wincing.

Gerhard and Monetto hefted their burden, grunting. They lugged the barrel to the gate. The others had already run halfway up the street, past the advance of the search parties, which could be heard shouting on the Via Fidei. Twice they had to set Gonji down and duck into cover; once for a clattering Llorm troop, a second time for a band of galloping rebels, with a mercenary squad in hot pursuit. Both times the barrel came perilously close to being a surprise stumbling block.

At last they reached the rear yard of the house across from Milorad’s. But they still had to cross over the now deadly Street of Faith. A short sprint—without the barrel and its precious cargo.

They knelt in the shadows between the houses, panting for breath.

“We may have to just...just leave him here somewhere,” Gerhard observed despairingly, “come back for him later.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Monetto countered. “What if he comes to and climbs out at the wrong time?”

“He has the Sagami,
dummkopf!
”

“Against all these soldiers? Come on, Karl, we’re not
that
tired.”

“We still can’t run across, and we’ll
have
to run. Besides, what about my bow? They’re sure to spot that.”

A Llorm party pounded past, crossbows clacking at distant rebels.

“Hope they made it
all-recht
,” Karl breathed, thinking of Lydia’s bunch. A sudden notion: “I know what let’s do—let’s roll him across.”

Monetto’s face contorted and his stomach churned just to think of Gonji’s situation. “You’re crazy.”

“
Nein
, it’s the only way. A good push—a
really
good push. It wouldn’t do to have him stop in the street. And then we follow fast. How about it?”

“Stupid,” Monetto assessed the idea. But in the end he had to agree it was the only way.

Gonji moaned pathetically inside the barrel. “Sleep,
sensei.
It’ll be all right,” Monetto said, slapping the lid.

They waited until the most propitious moment. Then, running behind the rolling barrel and injecting all their remaining energy into the push, they sent Gonji bouncing and scraping across the tumult on the Via Fidei. Holding their breaths and grimacing with every bounce, they watched it rumble over the cobblestones, hit the sewage gutter at the center of the street and lurch over with increased momentum, then begin the roll up the slight grade to the far side of the street. With failing speed it struck the tiny curb and jumped up onto the fieldstone walk, where it settled. More soldiers thundered past. They waited anxiously a long time, or so it seemed. But at last they were able to sprint across the avenue safely.

Picking up the barrel once more, they struggled to the rear courtyard, where they were met by a grim party of citizens, who lent them assistance.

* * * *

Phlegor was dragged to the square, bound and bleeding.

“Keep fighting, Vedun!” the guild leader cried. “Fight the invaders until not one of them is left alive! Their king is dead!” A Llorm footman slapped him sharply across the face. He was brought to the ominous black barouche in which Mord sat with arms folded. Even in his fury and resignation to death, Phlegor paled to see the giant Tumo, seated in the fountain laving his wounds, his long red tongue running over blubbery lips as a low rumbling growl evinced his pain. Mercenaries bandaged Tumo’s wounds as he glared at Phlegor.

“So, you think King Klann is dead, do you?” Mord said. “Since you don’t believe in the Invincible, you shall have to see him for yourself. First you may enjoy witnessing the fate of your brave followers.” The sorcerer pointed to where soldiers dealt with the arrested rebels all over the square. Some had been hanged and shot; others beaten; still more huddled together somberly to await the punishment for their crimes. So far, seventy citizens were known to be dead, along with twenty-six troops from the occupation force. No one could even guess how many more were injured.

“Bring him, when you’re finished with him,” Mord told Julian, “along with the witch.” He indicated Tralayn, who stood nearby in shackles, head held up proudly, her flashing jade eyes fixed on Mord accusingly. Julian nodded, and Mord rode off in the coach under mercenary escort, his monstrous familiars following. Tumo carried his pot helmet in one hand, the now splintered truncheon in the other. He lurched behind the barouche, apelike, while the wyvern flapped down from the north, aiming a last keening cry at Vedun.

“Where is the one called Gonji?” Julian asked Phlegor, walking around him arrogantly, saber in hand.

“I don’t know, and I don’t care,” Phlegor grated.

“You ought to care—he sold you out.” Julian leered at him, bringing his face close to the guildsman’s. “He’s the one who told me you were the leader of this...abortive action.”

Phlegor hawked and spat, catching himself short of directing the shot at Julian. “Don’t speak to me of that yellow monkey-man. All he ever did was talk. He’s probably running halfway to Vienna by now with the city’s money.”

Julian thought about the man’s words. He felt sure Gonji was still in the city somewhere but was fairly convinced that he wasn’t thought of fondly in Vedun any longer.
No backbone for a real fight....
Thirty against three was his kind of odds. Julian’s first assessment of the barbarian had been correct: he was merely a self-serving rogue who made a living playing both sides against each other.

Phlegor and Tralayn were led away in irons to the castle. Julian passed along his order that Gonji be found and brought to him alive: “Shoot him, if need be. But bring him to me with life left in him.
I
want the privilege of bleeding him dry.”

And as Phlegor disappeared, under guard, through the postern gatehouse, Boris Kamarovsky moved out from the shadows and into the open, unbothered by the soldiers—for it was he who had revealed where they would find the guild leader hiding.

One less troublemaker
, he thought.
And next the filthy barbarian....
A smug smile curled his lips.

* * * *

“Hang him,” Julian ordered calmly, “on the cross he loves so much.”

So the great cross at the square in the shadow of the chapel’s comforting spire became a gibbet on which Council Elder Flavio last beheld his beloved Vedun, now the shattered relic of the dreams and work of a lifetime. He gave no complaint but only offered up a last prayer for peace and placed his neck in the noose, almost with relief to be departing so troubled a world.

The shouting, rock-throwing mob’s action was brief. Little harm resulted, as Captain Sianno and the Llorm dragoon company that took charge exercised great effort to contain them with a minimum of violence. At the last the veteran captain looked on the body of the kindly Elder and realized with a great ache in his heart that the final bastion of peaceful coexistence had been breached.