Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two

by Rypel, T. C.

  They dismounted, hostlers attending at once to their horses. Garth paused to speak with them awhile. Flavio approached Gonji, an admonishing set to his pursed lips.

  “Remember your promise now—no trouble,” the Elder said affably, smiling and waving to anxious servants who rushed by in their duties.

  “Not unless I’m provoked, of course.”

  Flavio’s concern creased his brow. “Gonji, I would be more at ease if you told me you could extend the limits of your tolerance somewhat...at least for this important occasion.”

  They walked across the ward, Milorad and Garth following.

  Gonji sighed. “I am sometimes too easily provoked by effrontery, I suppose. And you are my master.” He smiled at the Elder. “As you would have it.”

  “Good!” Flavio grinned and picked up his step toward the great hall across the ward. “Now let us meet with our new liege lord and find out precisely where we stand—hello, Frantisek!” He greeted a bubbling servant who nearly tripped over himself as he bobbed his head and walked backward with a heavy ewer.

  Gonji was not surprised to find himself a popular attraction. Soldiers and civilians alike scanned him closely as he passed. He wondered what most fascinated them: his fighting reputation? Or had Julian spread the word so quickly that Gonji had become his secret operative?

  He took careful note of the Llorm regulars and their people. The Akryllonian nationals were a dark, pale folk who looked drawn, worn by their nomadic life. Lean and hungry. Desperate. Such qualities translated into ferociousness in battle, he well knew. The children, especially, seemed a pathetic lot; scrawny and hollow-eyed, weak and sickly. But the men, the Llorm regulars, were hardy enough, and if their will to live, to preserve their people and ease the burden of their families, ran deep enough, they’d not be leaving the province after the winter. Not this winter, nor many winters hence.

  It was all absurd. Could this really be the remnant of some lost island kingdom and not simply the camp following of a bandit chieftain? Perhaps they’d have answers soon.

  The delegates were led through the portals of the great hall and into a massive groin vault with egresses into three corridors. They turned left, armed guards before and behind them, passed noisy chambers and anterooms, and entered through a broad archway into the hall proper.

  It was a cavernous place, richly appointed, alive with the chatter and laughter of soldiers and civilians, servants and animals. Dogs barked and begged, scurried underfoot, awaiting handouts to come. Roistering mercenaries bellowed and clanked their armament, called out ribald jokes; some, already drunk, grabbed at scampering, yelping servant girls.

  Gonji sniffed distastefully. He had been expecting a more sedate and august display, something akin to courtly decorum. But this was the epitome of decadence, a scene freshly cut from the Judgment Day perdition paintings he had seen.

  Oil lamps and cresset torches blazed in the hall. The only windows were tall, slender affairs set high up on the walls, which admitted a network of murky gray twilight swirling with smoke and dust motes. Halfway up the walls, running its course around them, a canopied gallery bulged out over the hall, supported by ornate ivory columns. Dozens of chamber doors gave egress from the gallery, and at one side sat a group of musicians. Lute and recorder, flute and cymbal valiantly strove against the babble and din.

  Stately and heraldic arras hung about the walls, gazing down somberly on the wassail. The long oaken tables already were in disarray, the parquet floor a quagmire of mud and beverage spills. The banquet had yet to be served.

  They were led to a solitary table set before the raised dais where several of Klann’s advisers had already assumed their places. The four were seated at the end before the dais, Flavio and Gonji facing Milorad and Garth. Several other places at their table were set but untenanted. Servants crisscrossed the room, darting about with pitchers and kegs in a failing effort to keep flagons and goblets full. The air reeked of mead and ale, wine and kvas. Some servants fairly tripped over each other in their effusive efforts to greet the smiling Flavio, Milorad, and Garth. One scullery maid knelt and kissed Flavio’s hand, pleading for him to secure her release.

  They sat back and observed the orgiastic proceedings as their beverages were served, Gonji and Flavio selecting wine; Garth having an ale; and Milorad, mead. No one spoke for a time, each man content to observe, to ponder the promise of the night’s meeting, to seek a comfortable niche for himself in the surroundings.

  Gonji saw that the adjacent tables were reserved for the Llorm’s women and children and decided that was good. He was beginning to take his ease in this magnificent structure of huge ashlar blocks and sturdy beams which massed beasts of burden might strain at in vain. He worked at a stoic detachment from the nods and chuckles cast in his direction by tactless soldiers. Their childish threat was distant and impotent; it couldn’t disturb his harmony. He even met Julian’s occasional haughty glances with calm, impassive stares of his own, breaking them off at his leisure. Dignity will be mine tonight, he thought with supreme self-satisfaction.

  Then the Great Dane sidled up between Gonji and Flavio and began sniffing at the samurai’s swords.

  “Damn you, mangy cur!” Gonji grated in his throat, shooing the animal away in not altogether dignified fashion. “Lift your leg on my swords and someone will be feasting on your carcass tonight!”

  When his companions’ laughter had subsided, he reestablished his lost harmony and rubbed his reddening face. But he couldn’t help laughing himself and was pleased to see that he had lifted them from their timid sipping. Removing his daisho—his matched set of swords—from his obi, Gonji set them at his right side against the bench seat. He ran his hands under the slack left in the sash by their removal.

  “Now I’ve got room,” he said, sniffing deeply with eyes closed at the tempting whiffs of meaty aroma seeping from the kitchens. “Looks like no monsters were invited tonight, anyway,” he added.

  The others’ snickers subsided quickly, their memory of the cretin giant still poignant.

  “Wonder who’s going to be seated at our table,” Gonji thought aloud. “Oh, Garth—did the hostlers tell you why you were invited?”

  Garth shook his head glumly. “No, I don’t know.... It isn’t for smith work,” he added haltingly.

  Tumo will be feasting tonight, too.... Gonji shook his head and cleared his throat, was about to say something pleasant when the shriek came from a nearby table of mercenaries.

  “How dare you!” a woman shouted. “I’m a personal servant of the king!” She raised a silver serving tray over her head like a bludgeon.

  The man who had given her offense raised his eyebrows and leaned back in surprise, his companions roaring their mirth.

  “She’s a fiery one, eh?”

  “Draw on her, Merwyn!”

  The woman launched into a tirade, berating the soldier’s impropriety, shaking a petite fist in his face all the while. A Llorm regular finally rose from his table and interposed himself between them, dismissing the girl and bending low to admonish the drunken wastrel.

  “There’s the hoyden,” Garth said sullenly.

  Gonji looked to him questioningly.

  “Wilfred’s Genya,” Flavio clarified.

  “Ah, so desu—so that’s the lady fair!” Gonji said amusedly.

  And then she was heading for their table, adjusting her hair and skirts primly as she pattered over with restored dignity. They all rose to greet her. She looked to be in her late teens, her short stature emphasizing a ripe figure. Her hair was curly, soft and dark, and it frolicked about her shoulders as she moved pertly, calling attention to a cherubic face and sparkling dark eyes. A set of baby-fat dimples framed full red lips that were formed in a tempting pucker. It should not have been surprising that she was much pursued by the young men of Vedun, for nature had fashioned her for allure. But it seemed to Gonji, as the men rose from their table to greet her, that her charm was not without guile and artifice.

&n
bsp; “Oh, they’re such animals, these soldiers,” she said primly. Then she at once melted into wide-eyed innocence. “Oh, Papa Flavio, thank God you’re here! We’ve been simply dying inside, all of us, to know what’s become of Vedun.”

  She bent and kissed his hand lightly, her own small white hand fluttering at her bodice modestly. “How are my parents?” She spoke to the Elder in his native Italian.

  “They’re in good health,” Flavio replied, smiling benignly, “and they asked me to convey their love, as have all the servants’ families. My heart is heavy, though, for Lottie Kovacs. I’m afraid her father....”

  “Yes, we’ve heard—oh, Blessed Mother, what a terrible, terrible thing! Lottie’s crushed, absolutely crushed. But at least Richard is here to comfort her. But dear Signore Flavio, you will try to gain us our freedom tonight, won’t you—?”

  And Flavio offered his cautiously optimistic assurances that he would seek the hostages’ release. But almost before he had finished Genya had shifted her attention to Garth.

  “Herr Gundersen, how is Wilfred? I miss him so—oh my!” Quickly dismissing her startled expression at Garth’s bruises, she stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, and after a moment’s hesitation the burly smith self-consciously bent to oblige her.

  “He’s fine,” Garth said. “Stubborn as always.” He averted his eyes from hers, rather rudely, it seemed to the others.

  “Bitte, tell him to have a care. It’s so dreadful around here these days. The castle is full of dangers. The soldiers are everywhere. Monsters and giants roam the grounds freely. Have you seen them?” She was whispering with awe now.

  The delegates all muttered their agreement. And then, before their voices had ceased to echo, Genya was speaking with Milorad, making a show of interest in his and Anna’s well being in the new social circumstances.

  All the while Gonji could feel the girl’s consuming curiosity about him, though she never once regarded him directly.

  She was an operator, of that he was sure. Good fortune with this one, friend Wilfred.... He watched with keen interest how adroitly Genya shifted from dignity to respect to affection to anxiety, coyly affected innocence lubricating the transitions.

  Then she was through with Milorad and looking just past Gonji, eyes dropping diffidently floorward. He decided to accept the invitation.

  “I’m Gonji Sabatake, a friend of Wilfred.” He bowed slightly, and she curtsied, eyelids fluttering closed. “He asked me to give this to you, a token of his undying affection.” He handed her the blossom from Wilf.

  Her lips parted silently, and for the first time she seemed touched by genuine emotion.

  “Danke—thank you,” she whispered.

  And then her breath caught in her throat, and her eyes had suddenly outgrown her face, fear rimming them as she looked over Gonji’s shoulder. The others were all staring.

  Gonji turned, and a chill shot through his spine. He was gazing into the masked face of Mord. The sorcerer’s diamond-hard black eyes appeared to be smiling with private amusement.

  Gonji bowed, and a long moment later the magician returned the gesture, bending forward slowly and dreamily, like a reed under water.

  “We’ve...met?” Mord asked in his murky basso profundo voice.

  Gonji’s nape prickled with fine pinpoints of tension. His palms were cold and moist, but his face betrayed nothing of it.

  “Not unless you’ve been to Honshu,” he replied evenly.

  The sorcerer’s gleaming filigreed mask tilted almost imperceptibly, as if the arch reply had thrown him off guard. Then his piercing ophidian eyes appeared to shift, to cloud over with a dull film, to pulsate hideously as if about to burst their sockets.

  And an instant later Gonji was gazing with barely disguised shock into the fiery red orbs of the wyvern.

  Cholera.

  Gonji’s face grew hot; his senses reeled with an instant’s indecision. He could feel his companions’ breathless anticipation. Against his leg—the solid comfort of his sword hilts where they leaned. Then—

  “All kneel!”

  Gonji slowly joined the jostling, clinking throng in dropping to one knee, striving to control his bewilderment, to plan, to reestablish his wa, his harmony of spirit....

  “Know ye the righteous liege lord of the Isle of Akryllon and all its possessions, Successor to its throne, Preserver of its heritage, Supreme Commander of the Akryllonian Royalist Forces.... Know ye King Klann, Him Who Is Called the Invincible!”

  And in the reverent silence that had fallen during the heraldic pronouncement, it seemed that nothing had moved or stirred the air.

  And then the legendary King Klann was among them, and all eyes were on him. All eyes save Gonji’s.

  Gonji peered furtively over his shoulder.

  But Mord was gone.

  * * * *

  They sat alone over dinner in the stillness of the house, Michael Benedetto missing his murdered brother’s bright chatter more than ever. Two tapers cast their cold glow over the meal. The silence became unbearable, Lydia’s smug indulgence insufferable as she served him.

  “So say it already, vixen!” Michael growled. “They didn’t want me along because of my temper, and I’ve trodden on the graven image of your lofty ambition.” The words were spat more than spoken.

  Lydia blinked, but her composure was otherwise unshaken.

  “A broken nose and blackened eyes ill befit a statesman.”

  “Really? I can think of a few statesmen whose noses warrant rearrangement.”

  “Stop being a child. You’re making a shambles of your career—”

  “I’m the same child you wanted to keep in Count Faluso’s employ in...Mi-lahn-o,” he drawled sarcastically.

  “You needn’t have stopped there. With a bit of string-pulling by your mother, the de’Medicis might have—”

  “The de’Medicis—the corrupt de’Medicis—fie on the de’Medicis!”

  “Hush! You’ve chosen your position. You’d prefer to administer to peasants. But that’s no reason to slander the de’Medicis.”

  “And then where after Florence, my love?” Michael sneered. “Back to your homeland? To Krakow in triumphant return?”

  “Your Polish isn’t up to it.”

  “How very like my courtly mother you are. So thoroughly seduced by the appearances of state and the fripperies of court life.”

  Lydia spoke softly. “You still don’t understand me, Michael. I’m not your mother, I’m your wife. I believe that God has designated leaders and followers. You possess the talent and the education for leadership, but your cardinal humor is choler, and you make no effort to resist it. To fail to live up to your potential is a great sin.”

  Their meal half-eaten but appetite gone, Michael fell to brooding. Lydia approached him with a wet cloth and touched his shoulder gently.

  “Lie back and let me lay this on your battered face.”

  He shrugged off her hand. “Leave me alone.”

  She left the room with a soft rustle, the faintest wisp of her perfume trailing behind her. A moment later a servant came and cleared the table, careful not to intrude on her employer’s sullen introspection. And then Michael was alone with the hypnotic flicker of the candle flames.

  She was right. He was failing miserably in his charge. Even his rightful place in the castle delegation had been usurped by a stranger—and an infidel, yet! And from an angry cell in the dungeons of his mind came the shrill warning that this bold mercenary was going to be real trouble if he went unchecked. In more ways than one....

  For he had seen how the oriental had looked at his wife.

  Michael rose and donned a capote and toque. Lydia stopped him just as he was slipping out through the narrow vaulted foyer.

  “Where are you going at this hour?” she asked, eyes flashing with a trace of suspicion or fear.

  “Out,” he replied without looking back. “To think.”

  She watched him go through the window grating, then wrapped a sha
wl about her and stepped out into a crisp breeze that tumbled down from the mountain fastness.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Two concerns held Flavio captive. There was, of course, the apprehension over the momentous meeting with the warrior-king that was now but seconds away. And then there was the anxiety over Gonji: his temper; his flair for being at the center of contention; and now, most threateningly, the sorcerer’s apparent recognition of him.

  Could Mord have already divined, by means of some hideous magick, that it was the samurai who had attacked his familiar, the wyvern, with bow and arrows?

  Gonji was trouble, and bringing him along—indeed, hiring him as bodyguard!—had been a grave mistake.

  But then King Klann was speaking.

  “Welcome, all of you—my people, my soldiers, free companions who have entered my service, ambassadors from the city of Vedun—welcome, to you all! And now rise.” Klann swept his arms upward. “Rise and resume your merrymaking!”

  A great cheer swept the hall, and flagons were raised in toast to the king’s munificence.

  Klann and his retinue marched through the aisles toward the head table on the dais, the king jesting with soldiers and civilians on either hand. It was clear that here was a ruler who cared little for pomp and protocol.

  Flavio watched him closely, assessing the province’s new Lord Protector as he knew Milorad would be doing. Klann little resembled his swarthy Akryllonian nationals. And, the Elder realized with a disappointment that mildly surprised him, Klann hardly lived up to the aura of mysticism in which he had been enshrouded. He was a big, bluff red-bearded man, rather rotund and quick to laugh, with narrow, close-set eyes that darted and twinkled in a manner which suggested caution or cynicism, a broad melon grin, and high cheekbones which were perhaps his most regal feature. He spoke several languages and drank from the cups of commoners as he swept past.

  He avoided looking at the party from Vedun until he had been seated at the opulent table facing them. He sat in the ornate, high-backed chair that had so recently been reserved for Baron Rorka, and his mixed entourage of courtesans, advisers, and military officers joined him. Flavio recognized only Captain Sianno, commander of Vedun’s Llorm garrison, and Captain Kel’Tekeli, head of the free companies. The chair at Klann’s right was empty, doubtless reserved for his queen or a favorite courtesan. Mord had reappeared and was now seated a few places to the left of Klann, eyeing the delegates somberly. There was neither cup nor place setting before him.