Gonji: A Hungering of Wolves

by T. C. Rypel

  The lips rolled back from the great wolf snout to reveal huge white fangs that might estrange an elk’s parts with passing fair speed. “Ruttish heathen swine! I knew that sooner or later you would interpret this as an amour—a mere illicit love affair, a dalliance. Non, monsieur le samurai, I do not share your casual way with women.”

  Gonji’s brow furrowed, and he cast the hulking creature a hostile glare. “Gomen nasai—so sorry, but our relative moral codes are not being judged here. At any rate, my ‘way with women’ has never been casual. War-torn might be a more apt description. But…n’importe? Of what importance is that? My concern is for you. We’ve shared much pain, much tragedy, and the conspiracy that plots against us bodes more of the same, n’est-ce pas?”

  Simon’s ears perked. “You’ve touched upon a sore point. I…”

  When Simon left the void unfilled, Gonji spoke again earnestly. “You have considered what consummation of your love with a woman might mean?”

  “Oui. I am at a loss. I can only leave such dread consequences to be sorted by the hand of God.”

  “So be it, then,” Gonji said, standing and stretching languidly. He began at last to decide his course. “I think…I think, Simon-san, that this is more than a simple infatuation for you, neh?” He let out an amused breath, whispering softly into the night air in his native tongue:

  “The werewolf is in love.”

  “Qu’est-ce que c’est que cela? What’s that?”

  “Nothing. So what part do I occupy in this? How can I help you in your love pangs?”

  “Make no jest, warrior. No one smiles in the Saone Valley these days. The province of my sainted mother—Burgundy.”

  “Burgundy?” Gonji’s brow furrowed. “Always a hotbed of trouble, I’ve heard it said. But I understood all that was settled some years ago.”

  The werewolf growled disdainfully. “A black stain of evil has spread over the territory. It began near Dijon, with strange murders in the night. Fiends stalk the mountain valleys, and they are protected by the…the powers that hold sway. You have a stake in this, if you be true to your Knights of Wonder, they who venerate your oriental footsteps. Catholics and Huguenots slay one another, their fervor fueled by the mocking evil that ravages the countryside.”

  “Wait a moment—you’re beginning to sound like these other misguided souls. I am not the prince of the Wunderknechten. I admire certain of their principles. It seems common sense not to slaughter one’s countrymen whilst foreign oppressors slaver over the prospect of devouring the survivors, but—” Gonji’s eyebrow cocked pensively. “I thought there was a proclamation—an edict—the Edict of Nantes. Have not your French brothers ceased their religious warfare?”

  “Hah! Since when was evil ever arrested by an edict of man? I tell you there is danger in Burgundy of a hideous nature. To the people. To her…Even to me—although you know I fear not the stroke of death! You’ve surely seen ample evidence of that. It’s only that…she’s given me reason to think of life as something more than torment and guilt and an endless round of savagery and solitude. I’ve even given thought to foreswearing my oath of vengeance against Grimmolech—him who made me what I am. But I must know the truth of love, of trust. And I have reason to doubt that I can ever embrace such things in my life.”

  “Why?”

  Simon turned away. “Another time, perhaps.”

  Gonji fancied that a shiver coursed the creature’s huge frame, as if from a sudden chill. But the Beast jerked about and fixed on the samurai with his flashing silvery eyes.

  “I operated in the territory for some time on the people’s behalf. Some knew of my presence, protected me. Some suffered for it when my position became compromised. I was involved beyond my capability to cope when I was discovered. I had spent the final full moon there chained in a cellar, disdaining this monstrous form—with good reason. It was because of this…thing I become that I was found out—”

  Simon was trembling now, his jaws clacking as he indicated his wolfish body with raking black talons. “And even with its power I was at a lack. I’m—” Laughing gruffly now, as the samurai stared with fascination. “—not the monster I once was, you see. One too many adventures with you, monsieur knight-errant. I don’t heal as quickly as I once did. One hamstring has been severed; the heel tendon of the other leg, twice; certain of the Beast’s senses are not as keen as in days gone by. I don’t know how many quests I have left in me…”

  Gonji eyed the lurking Beast sympathetically as he went on.

  “…I became aware of your actions in Avignon, went seeking you, found the wretched result of your campaign. There was a connection, I believe—the very same stain of evil I speak of has spread throughout France even as King Henry turns his ambitions abroad. I followed you to Spain and have now lost a year in your company again. You do owe me something of your deep sense of duty.”

  Gonji nodded somberly, aware now of the uncharacteristic pleading in Simon’s voice. “What is the nature of this…evil seed?”

  The werewolf squatted down on its dog legs, folding its golden-furred, corded arms on its knees.

  “Je ne sais quoi—it is hard to find words to describe it. You must trust me. It may be best to enter the fray with no clear expectations of the shape of the enemy. Your present state of multilateral suspicion may be your most potent armor in the quest I propose.”

  Gonji strolled as he spoke, stroking his stubbled chin, caught up in a crowding press of roiling ideas. “You ask a great deal. It will be hard to convince the others—especially Kuma-san. Leone’s become strangely preoccupied, as well. You want me to outfit an armed party to invade French territory, where I’m already persona non grata, where we’d be nothing more than a marauding band of outlaws. What’s wrong with King Henry? Has anyone appealed for his help? It is his land. Has he decided what Christian sect to embrace yet? He reminds me of my noble father in his machinations!”

  A rasping sigh hissed out behind him. “He’s been Catholic again for a span of years now. So spare me your infidel sarcasm. He’s been a boon to the people. The Burgundians did approach him once—two years ago—for help in their trouble.”

  “And?”

  “No satisfaction, naturally. Evil employs many clever misdirections, many disguises when threatened. A certain…family, a clan of demons, rules in Burgundy. They cannot be defeated by simple direct assault of a cavalry column. Only a band experienced in battling evil in all its abominable wiles stands a chance. Such challenge was made, and the result was a clear warning to the people against soliciting aid through the normal channels. You see, a column of the king’s troops was deployed against the tyrant clan. They were never seen again—alive. I found them some time later, frozen into blood-caked statues in the drifts of an unnatural passing blizzard. Hardly recognizable as men anymore. Memorials, you see, to the work of the arrogant fiends you must help me deal with.”

  Gonji knelt before the ominous creature and drew his sheathed swords from his obi, laying them on the ground between them. He bowed shallowly. Then he withdrew from a pocket his hachi-maki, the headband of resolution. This he tied about his forehead.

  “All right, Simon-san.”

  The Beast stood. “Domo…arigato.”

  The samurai’s lips pressed into a thin line. “Simon, why didn’t you just take the woman with you when you left?”

  “How could I know her heart? Expect her to leave her homeland, to run with me, perhaps under pursuit that might last us all our days?”

  “All you had to do…was ask her.” Gonji’s look reflected his perplexity.

  The lycanthrope shook its great canine head. “It’s not that simple. Believe me.” It turned away, shunning Gonji’s piercing gaze.

  Again Gonji was certain that Simon was concealing something, but there was no penetrating his stubbornness, and the samurai
was weary of probing him. “I envy you,” he said finally, “having someone who so inspires you. To fight for.” He slowly drew the Sagami halfway out of its scabbard until he espied the nick on its edge. “I must repair this reminder of your berserker rage before ever attempting to return home.”

  “It wakes,” Simon growled in sharp warning.

  And when Gonji peered closely at him, the eyes of the tortured soul trapped within Simon’s sphere of existence bore into Gonji’s own, lancing him with crimson tines of hatred.

  * * * *

  Wolves be a-hungering, on timbered trails…

  He could not recall where he had heard the words; nor, in fact, whether they had been spoken or read or sung beside some dream-stirring campfire. But he associated the memory with the grim winter they’d spent in France.

  They’d left behind them a docile Genoese clime, and Gonji wondered whether their first mistake had not in fact been the decision to decline Simon’s chosen path through Savoy and over the rugged Alps in favor of taking ship to the southern French coast. Gonji and Simon had argued the samurai’s decision to proceed with caution. Simon refused to ride the sea again, striking out alone on the bowshot course through the rugged mountains, impatiently reminding Gonji of the place where they would rendezvous. To Gonji the lycanthrope’s insistence seemed a foolhardy, enervating effort at making up time best conceded to karma. But from the outset Gonji’s crusading party was beset by myriad difficulties.

  Too many wild-eyed, blustering young adventurers had joined the company, most of them not yet blooded by combat. They represented a new faction among the Wunderknechten—young idealists on a nebulous quest after glory, seeking to establish reputations based on close association with the samurai. Still worse, certain trusted comrades failed to take part in the venture: Luigi Leone had taken up with a young widow, claiming discontent with his long life on the road; and Father Jan Sebastio, while offering a halfhearted blessing on the pier, had refused to be an accessory to any such militant affair, gently reminding Gonji of his appointment with the pope.

  Disembarking in France, Gonji found still more sinister problems awaiting him. The company was received with great fanfare by a French contingent of the Knights of Wonder. To his horror, the samurai learned that their purpose had preceded them, compromising any hope of silent, secret entry into the golden werewolf’s deadly cause.

  Angered by the bitter irony of it all—he had once longed for the celebrity that now confounded his way—Gonji nonetheless allowed himself to be feted by the French chapter of tolerance-seekers who named him their champion.

  * * * *

  The outdoor festival honoring the celebrated oriental warrior had been held in the sprawling square of St. Pons, near the southern end of the Cevennes Mountain range. The regional adherents of the Knights of Wonder movement had gathered in force, represented even by some of the French light cavalry troop garrisoned in the city.

  An all-day conference, replete with food and drink, benediction and song, was presided over by a local cure, a middle-aged priest who had embraced the peaceful coexistence precepts of the Wunderknechten. Heady aromas spiced the air. The converse of a thousand voices and the clamor of footfalls and hoofbeats, jangling traces and jostling bodies, were dampened by the whip and whine of the icy mistral. Good cheer mingled with the chatter of ongoing disputes, most of which the samurai had been expected to settle.

  Gonji accepted their hospitality with gratitude, but he declined their suggestion that he address the audience en masse and tried to avoid becoming involved in their trivial arguments over details of Knights of Wonder attitudes. He was, for instance, unwilling to mediate their disagreement over the charges of the Wunderknechten crest—the third such he had seen. This one, designed by an artist from Gascony, featured a white cross over a red sunset, inset with stars and all-seeing eyes, the central device cupped in a huge hand, and underscored by a crossed sword-and-palm-frond.

  Gonji winced and shook his head when he viewed it.

  “The vain efforts men make,” he had declared, “to objectify their wonder at the mysteries of life. Always trouble, neh? Wonder is internal, shared with nature on a personal basis.”

  The artist had stalked off in a huff.

  Other focuses of contention were far more potentially destructive to the movement’s unity. There was a faction that spoke of militating against those who refused to accept the tolerance principle central to the movement. Gonji refused even to comment upon that absurdity, so amazed was he at its fatuousness.

  Their penchant for stubbornly segregating themselves into Catholic Knights and Huguenot Knights led to their posing bizarre hypothetical questions regarding the movement’s political and social standards, most of which Gonji sidestepped, to no one’s satisfaction. And when maneuvered into declaring his belief in the separation of clergy and state—with leadership being conceded to the ruling family—he alienated many among both the devoutly religious and the democratically disposed revolutionary thinkers. Only the soldiery’s esteem was boosted by his attitudes toward selfless duty and loyalty.

  Gonji was largely bewildered by the wayward evolutionary offshoots certain of his cherished beliefs had sprouted. He took perverse gratification in but one fact that emerged amidst the Wonder Knights’ diffuse fervor: The name of Vedun—storied Carpathian city that had been ravaged by steel and flame, netherworld beast, and valiant militia defense against an outnumbering horde—had become legend, a feared symbol and a rallying cry to freedom-lovers. This the samurai found hauntingly quaint and deeply nostalgic.

  Thus lost in maudlin reminiscence, Gonji had failed to take note of the threat until the gleaming-eyed fanatic had approached to within ten paces and drawn a bead with his long-barreled pistol.

  The bearded young man screamed something at him in a dialect he didn’t know, only the words “infidel” and “Satan” intelligible to him. Before anyone could stop him, the shot was fired, but the ball missed Gonji.

  The crowd pressed in and disarmed the assassin. Buey bounded over a table and charged the man, felling him with a mighty blow.

  Gonji watched and listened and wondered, almost dreamlike, amidst the din and surge of protective bodies that ringed him in. He felt strangely detached from the spectacle, as if he had had no part in it. His spirit withdrew again, feeling the need to flee this mystique that had grown about him, unbidden.

  “I’m weary of this,” he’d said to no one in particular.

  “Weary of what?” Orozco had replied. “You’re an old hand at dodging assassins’ bullets by now.”

  When the piercingly cold night descended, he quietly extricated himself from the tumult, gathered his few close friends, and sent the cursing Buey off in search of a few bottles of good French wine while he and the others planned to sequester themselves in an upper room of a poor-quarter hostel. Orozco again began sputtering about special armor. The others growled in frustrated anger over the incident. Gonji declined to speak of it. His sullen mood had spread through the band by the time Buey returned.

  But before any hearth had been brought to blazing or any wine uncorked, swords had crossed in that singularly unexpected way Gonji had long since come to expect.

  * * * *

  “You will dismount and surrender your weapons at once, monsieur,” the cavalry lieutenant was saying as the samurai and his small party turned a corner and arrived in the torchlit cobbled lane below the hostel.

  But Gonji and his band were not the ones being addressed. They halted and watched the confrontation.

  The lieutenant’s French cavalry troop had been attracted by a disturbance—the rasping and clangor of drawn weapons among a motley party of bickering brigands.

  “You and all your companions, at once,” the lieutenant repeated.

  The leader of the band of nine mounted warriors padded his steed forward three
paces and reined in firmly. “I have said, Lieutenant, we shall not. But, s’il vous plait, you may introduce me to the gentleman we have ridden so far to meet. I believe he approaches.”

  The leader indicated Gonji, still somewhat distant.

  “Bandit!” the cavalry commander shouted. “The only acquaintance you’ll make in St. Pons is that of the prison.” The officer glanced back at his troops, who outnumbered the outlaw party better than two-to-one. “Now, for the last time—”

  “Pardon, Lieutenant,” Gonji interrupted, clopping up and stopping at the left end of the massed confrontation. Gonji’s companions flanked him on both sides, fingering their belted weapons edgily. Now a crowd of citizens began to gather, bearing lamps and flambeaux, whispering anxiously. The samurai lightly rested his left hand on the pommel of his katana.

  “You’d be well advised to steer clear of this business, monsieur,” the officer of cavalry advised him sharply.

  Gonji peered up at him closely, his expression defiant. He’d been drawn to the streets by two things: his intuition that this commotion concerned him personally and a curiosity as to just how much influence he wielded in his exalted position.

  He looked the strangers over, his swift, casual glance revealing much to his practiced eye. These nine were rugged adventurers who had seen much action and ridden together a long time. As cavaliers en corps, they were impressively disciplined, their battle-scarred steeds holding fast, their line spread for skirmish against the outnumbering cavalry.

  No war-dog among them offered reply to the French knights’ threat; their valor was admirable. All wore Flemish burgonet helms, but beyond that their armament varied widely. They sported brigandines, jacks, and cavalry cuirasses. Some carried broadswords slung on their backs; others, lighter blades at their belts. All displayed at least one pistol. There were two muskets and two polearms sprouting up from their ranks, and one broad-backed rogue carried an enormous double-edged broadaxe of a sort that had long been out of fashion. Men still displaying such weapons usually had known combat against extra-human foes, foes that yielded only to hardy steel in a forthright grasp. Some of their horses’ heads were armored with chanfrons. Some saddles were of the common riding variety; others, war saddles with cantle-and-bow faced with steel plates. But all of them were festooned with powder flasks on the same side.