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

by Rypel, T. C.

  Flavio looked to Gonji, but the samurai sat in dignified silence, expectantly regarding the king. Praised be for that. Milorad sat calmly, shot Flavio a wink of encouragement when their eyes met. Good old Mil.... Garth seemed troubled, preoccupied. As well he might be, under the shadow of his curious invitation.

  Genya directed a stream of servants in attending the royal table under the gaze of an evil-faced chief steward.

  Then Klann was nodding and smiling to Flavio, and the Elder prayed for guidance. Lord God, send me Your Spirit so that I may know the right words....

  “Let the feast be served!” Klann called to the chief steward, and immediately there flowed from the sweltering kitchens a procession of foodstuffs held on high in huge serving platters and wheeled into the hall on silver carts. A roar of approval and applause broke from the roistering crowd.

  Deer were broken; geese were rered; trout, culponed—all meats and fish and fowl were goodly carved. Beverages sloshed under the botiler’s charge. The orgiastic feasting began, strolling minstrels and the gallery musicians serving up festive music for the aid of digestion.

  “And now,” Klann said in very cultured Italian, indicating the Elder, “you, my friend, can only be the Flavio we’ve heard of, Council Elder in Vedun. By all accounts a wise and reasonable man—no-no, sit! Eat as we speak. Let formality be damned this night. Drink! Eat! Introduce your companions to us.”

  Klann took a deep draught from his goblet. Flavio drew a breath to relax and sat back down on the bench.

  “I am Flavio, sire, even as you say, but I fear your intelligence with respect to me flatters me too much.” He bowed deeply. “Here is my close friend and adviser, Milorad Vargo. And our city’s chief smith, Garth Gundersen, here with us by your royal edict. And—” He stuttered just a bit when he came to Gonji, whose face betrayed nothing of what he was thinking. “—Gonji Sabatake, a soldier from the Far East, my...bodyguard.” The word hitched in his throat, and he dearly wished he could have recalled it. This bodyguard business was absurd.

  “Indeed!” Klann replied. “Do you think you’ll have need of a bodyguard this night?”

  Gonji seemed about to say something, and Flavio waved his hand at his side. He forced out a casual chuckle, and Milorad joined in.

  “Hardly, milord king.”

  “Good. Now let us tell you what you’ve come to hear and clear the air between us.”

  And with that Klann launched into his story with a directness and sincerity Flavio had to admire. He ate as he spoke, pausing now and again to lave his hands with the budget and ewer held for his private use by two servants. He tossed scraps to the turnspit dogs that roamed the hall. Flavio listened to him carefully, and it seemed that every so often the conquering king would drift off, become detached, as if searching for words etched in the hall’s opposite wall or straining to hear a distant voice. He was addicted to the use of the royal “we,” almost to the point of distraction.

  “Signore Flavio, we Akryllonian nationals are the remnant of a once proud island people, a people gifted in art and artifice and, I think, attuned to powers your mainland folk would find unfathomable. My esteemed parents were rulers of Akryllon. My father was a just and compassionate monarch, but in the end, despite his fairness, he found that the stewards of those powers—a league of wizards and mages—had turned upon him. They wrested the throne and scepter of Akryllon and put our parents to flight. They died in exile, bitter and despondent, and on our heads and the heads of our loyal followers they placed the charge that we should devote ourselves to regaining what is rightfully ours. So our first requisite of you is that you extend us your understanding that we do what we must, and not always as we would have it. But we are driven by an inviolable command to fulfill a destiny and restore a kingdom. For we are the royal bloodline of Akryllon. And we are Klann. I...am Klann...and we are five....”

  Klann’s voice had dwindled to a grating whisper, and his eyes had glazed over with these last words. He seemed to be fighting for control. Flavio felt a wave of disquietude course through him as he listened. Was Klann mad, or—?

  “But forgive us,” Klann went on, smiling affably, once again rational. “These are things which are no concern of yours. What we would like you to do is look about you—not at the soldiers but at the women and children...at the very few aged folk of Akryllon. Can you see in their faces and fragile bodies how they’ve suffered these many years of nomadic wanderings? If I were to tell you how those years are numbered, I daresay you should call me a lunatic. But we wish you to understand, so we’ll say nothing of it. What we will say is that the nations of the world have met us with ill, for the most part. Like wolves pursuing the scent of death, they’ve hounded us. Met us in our time of need with sword and bow and cannon shot....

  “And so we’ve fought back in order to survive. What we’ve been denied in the name of mercy, we’ve taken by warfare and sorcery. We came to your Baron Rorka seeking sanctuary, shelter from the coming winter so that we might grow in strength and numbers and, come the spring, once again launch an assault on the usurpers of our father’s throne. But the baron denied us what we required. Our situation was desperate, and what happened...happened. We were forced to take what we needed for our survival.

  “But now we are here, and things are as they are. Nothing need concern the citizens of Vedun but the continuance of the reciprocal relationship that existed between the city and the baron. Rest assured that your interests will be well protected and that it is of utmost importance to us that our relationship be peaceable. Have I made myself sufficiently clear?”

  Flavio collected his scattered thoughts, cleared his throat, and wiped his bearded chin with a linen cloth. A servant boy rushed up with a leather budget of water, but the Elder waved him off.

  “Sire...,” he began slowly, “we appreciate your frankness and candor, and now I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence if I, too, speak frankly.” He spoke gently, knowing the fragile ground on which he trod. “Was this violent coup truly necessary? So much bloodshed on both sides. We have much room in Vedun, and our grain bins are full to over—”

  “Yes, there has been much bloodshed,” came the booming voice of Mord, “and it continues. Soldiers on patrol are slaughtered cold-bloodedly. King Klann’s own field commander has been beaten to death in the streets. And insurrectionists have even dared to attack my wyvern, as if their puny shafts could bring down such a thing of power—all by rebel action! Who sanctions these actions, Elder?”

  Mord was on his feet, shouting. The closest tables had fallen silent now, watching between sips and bites.

  Milorad spoke up before Flavio. “With all due respect, the honored counselor ignores certain facts: First, let it be made clear here that Vedun’s council sanctions no rebellious activity, certainly not murder. We are a Christian community, and murder is stringently proscribed by the tenets of our faith. Commander Ben-Draba was killed by a stranger. No one in the city ever saw him before—”

  “Lies,” Mord said flatly.

  “And may I add,” Flavio piped in, “that the boxing contests at the square were held at the insistence of the commander himself. The people were threatened for failure to participate.”

  “And the council had no part in the attack on the wyvern—” Milorad continued, as Mord interposed:

  “Lies—all lies!”

  “—why, the very sight of the flying monster is enough to send gentlefolk—”

  “You lie!” Mord fumed. “It is your intention to resist the king’s will and to provoke combat that will see an end to his ordained purpose.”

  “Enough!”

  Klann had been listening impatiently, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. Now he raised a huge red hand, and an uneasy quiet gripped the hall.

  “Suffice it to say that enough violence has been done on both sides and that we’ll have an end of it, here and now. I have lost a great field commander, true, and he will be missed. But it was not altogether unexpected. Ben-Draba’s impe
tuous nature and bull-headedness were bound to bring him to such an end sooner or later. And as for the wyvern—” Klann chortled. “—I must confess that I, too, might have shot at such a thing flying over my home for the first time!”

  A spate of laughter ran through the audience, and Mord’s eyes flared hotly. Flavio sensed a certain tension between the king and his court sorcerer, recalling that Baron Rorka had mentioned something of this.

  “But let that be the end of it,” Klann said as the laughter abated. “I trust that the bold adventurers involved witnessed the wyvern’s rather ghastly offensive—and I mean no pun there!—its monstrous offensive capabilities. We’ll have no more rebellious incidents.”

  “I’m quite sure you’re right, sire,” Flavio agreed. “But now I’ve been charged by the city to pursue certain grievances. I beg your indulgence. First, there is the matter of the threats against our worship of the Lord God. Specifically, the cross at the city square has been struck down—”

  “I gave no such order. I care nothing for your mode of worship, but it gives me no offense. Sianno—what of this accusation?”

  The captain lifted his palms in a gesture of confusion and eyed the other officers at the table.

  Then Mord spoke. “Milord, you signed the order. It was merely a routine threat against resistance, part of the standard security procedure in occupied territory.”

  Klann nodded curtly. “Yes-yes, so I did. Well, their Christian worship offers us no threat—unless it extends to raising another papist army such as the one which gave us such trouble in Austria! You may continue your worship unimpeded.”

  Flavio and Milorad exchanged a look of relief and triumph. Mord glowered down at them silently.

  Then, emboldened by this early victory, the Council Elder tactfully pursued other subjects of concern to the citizens of Vedun: recompense for the families of soldiers and citizens slain by Klann’s forces; aggression by the mercenaries; freedom for servants held at the castle against their will....

  * * * *

  Klann feigned patient indulgence of the bearded Elder as he prattled on. The king knew only too well the necessity for at least hearing the man out. A peaceful respite and recuperation in this province was dreadfully important right now. These people had to be placated. They could be most troublesome if they decided to bare their fangs while the army still licked its wounds.

  (don’t think such weak thoughts)

  (take a firm hand with them you’re a king)

  But it was exasperating, listening to the council Elder’s petty concerns....

  Recompense and conscripted servants, bullying in the streets—what do we care for these things?! We are king and as such are above the concerns of these small folk! (be just and merciful wisdom walks hand-in-hand with mercy) And what of those people Mord has taken for his foul purposes? What shall we tell them of those? Surely they’ll demand an answer soon enough. But what is that to us? What can they do about it? We are king; we have our own people to worry after. The problems of these provincials are as nothing to us. (correct be firm, stall them tell them what they want to hear) (no be just and compassionate)

  Be still, my brethren, be still....

  And then Klann saw the audacious one.

  He lurched to his feet and pointed past the Vedunian delegates to a table adjacent to theirs.

  “You, there! You in the dirty frock coat! How dare you? Guards, seize that man!”

  The hall fell silent as a garroted throat.

  As the pair of Llorm sentries rushed over, the singled-out mercenary wove to his feet, bleary-eyed from his wine, and held his hands out, palms up, in mute appeal.

  “Sire?” he slurred.

  “Were you not told that guns were forbidden within these halls?” Klann boomed.

  The soldier reached down and slapped the offending pistol at his side, a half-grin twisting his mouth. His eyes came wetly alight with remembrance and guilt.

  “I—I forgot, Milord King, that’s all,” he stuttered in Spanish. “But it’s not loaded or spannered and—and—”

  “Remove him!” Klann ordered. “And if we ever see you within the middle bailey of this castle again, your head will decorate the towers!”

  Then Klann settled himself, self-consciously rubbing his thighs as he sat back, and the buzz of voices and lilting strains of music gradually returned to normal.

  * * * *

  Eeyaaiii, but he’s a moody one, neh? Gonji thought, relief flooding him once the incident had ended. And that’s very bad in a king. Hai, very so.

  For an instant, when Klann had risen and pointed along Gonji’s table, the samurai had thought he was the one being singled out.

  But what did this obsession about firearms mean? Especially from a king whose army depended on them so. And was he truly a king at all? Gonji’s initial suspicion that Klann would turn out to be nothing more than a bandit warlord seemed to be vindicated by Klann’s appearance and mien. He had little to commend him as royalty.

  Gonji listened as Klann sidestepped Flavio’s appeals for redress and release of the conscripted servants. Flavio and Milorad clearly were less than enthusiastic about Klann’s declaration that he would take these matters under advisement. All the while Garth idly picked at his food as if it were the last meal of a condemned man.

  The samurai himself sampled a portion of most everything that passed his way. The pheasant was especially succulent, and the trout was a rare and marvelous treat. He drank a light white wine, sipping judiciously so as not to wander far from total control of his faculties. For although he had laid his swords at his right side in a gesture of peace and respect, these were still to be considered hostile surroundings.

  Klann had steered the conversation away from military and political matters to topics of a more light-hearted, jovial nature, sometimes seeming about to reveal some inner source of mirth. Gonji’s curiosity was just turning to the empty place of honor beside the king when a table of mercenaries nearby was cleared, a new troop clumping in shortly thereafter to take their places with many a braying greeting to comrades already present.

  A pang of alarm: Would Klann’s magnanimity reach out to encompass his entire mercenary force? Would the 3rd Free Company, whom Gonji had quit after the violent incident with the Mongols, be relieved so that they might feast this night, as well?

  His gaze wandered to his swords, leaning at his side against the bench, then back to the new band of adventurers who were already regarding with puzzlement his topknot and oriental features. There within easy reach was his katana, the Sagami, whose noble steel had tasted the blood of many strong opponents. Skewed against it was his ko-dachi, the short sword which, if honor demanded, would be used for seppuku, for ritual suicide, before he would ever submit to surrender.

  If the hours of this night were to be his last, then that was karma. So be it. He dismissed the matter. But not before first offering a short prayer to the kami of fortune that he might have an end of his quest before dying.

  Then he was suddenly attentive on the king, for Klann had addressed him personally.

  “And you, bodyguard,” Klann was saying in Italian, “your name is Gonji—?”

  “Sabatake Gonji-no-Sadowara, sire,” Gonji clarified, standing proudly and offering Klann a deep bow. “Gonji is my given name.”

  “I’ve heard something of your Far Eastern fighting prowess. Were you not one who came forward to fight my ill-fated field commander?”

  Gonji was aware of Julian’s scornful glare as the captain leaned forward on an elbow at the high table.

  “Hai, milord—yes,” Gonji answered, smiling thinly. “But, so sorry, I was denied the honor of fighting the great boxer. Instead I was placed in a contest with his subordinate, a man of somewhat lesser skills.”

  He couldn’t resist the jibe, and he knew from the oohing and laughter that it had carried to the table of Luba. He could practically feel the heat waves emanating from Luba’s table.

  Klann chuckled. “They say you us
e your feet as smoothly as a man might use his fists. I’d like to see that sometime. But what I’d really like to know is, who was your friend?” Klann’s eyes narrowed under coyly arched brows.

  Gonji swallowed, cocking his head uncertainly. “Sire?”

  “The one who so easily killed Ben-Draba.”

  Nearby conversation dwindled amid shushing whispers. Gonji chose his words carefully.

  “So sorry, Milord King, but...you ascribe to me influence that this simple warrior neither possesses nor deserves.” He smiled and bowed again, not so low this time.

  “I see,” Klann said patronizingly. “Well, then we’ll leave it at this: This ‘pouncing killer,’ or whatever the troops are calling him, had best not turn up in the province again. Unless, that is, he’d like to claim the price on his head for himself. We might make room in our mercenary command for such an astonishingly gifted fighter, eh?”

  Klann looked up and down the table at his officers, who grunted or clucked hoarsely.

  “I might make room for him at the end of my saber,” Julian advanced haughtily. A few nervous laughs came from the table, but they were bled of all their conviction by the still poignant memory of the big commander’s helplessness at the ferocious attack by the stranger, the subsequent whirlwind escape, climaxed by the unique warrior’s amazing leap over a fifteen-foot wall and disappearance into the forest—with a war arrow embedded in his flesh.

  “He’s probably dead already of his wounds,” one of Klann’s captains said from behind clenched hands that supported his chin on bracing elbows. There were mutters of hopeful agreement.

  “I’m not so sure.”

  From his end of the table came the eerie bass voice of Mord. The sorcerer stood and pointed to Gonji with a gloved hand.