by Rypel, T. C.
“Tell me what you know of the Deathwind, barbarian, he who is called Grejkill.” A wave of hushing swept the entire side of the hall.
Gonji was annoyed by the wizard’s insult but too intrigued by the abrupt broaching of the object of his own quest to pay it any heed. It was in fact the first time he could recall anyone had mentioned the mystery names to him. His heart began to pound.
“It is...the name of the thing I have come to seek in the West. I have been told many things about these names. Some conflicting things. There are those who say the names refer to nothing more than a European legend. But others would tell you that they speak of a beast...a thing that is not quite a man—or perhaps it’s the other way around. My quest after it has led me here, to this province. In these mountains the lore-mongers name the Deathwind as their God’s avenging spirit, some protective horror that will lay low their oppressors....”
At this last disclosure there were gasps and whispers all around, for there could be little doubt that Gonji had been referring to the occupying force of Klann.
“...of course that’s all probably peasant talk, the idle chatter of the uneducated. Who can say?” he concluded, smiling slyly.
“I think perhaps you know more than fireside prattle,” Mord accused, and Gonji’s arms stiffened at his sides. He was suddenly sorry that he had removed his swords.
“What do you know of this?” From a concealed pocket Mord produced a large formed metal object. A huge key. The key produced an immediate effect on Gonji’s companions; their flaring nerve ends could almost be seen. But Gonji himself could not remember ever having seen it, though it piqued a recent memory.
“Nothing. I’ve never seen it before.” He tinged his voice with gentle menace, weary of the sorcerer’s brusque tone.
“I think you’re lying.”
“Mord, that’s enough,” said Klann, his tone almost one of boredom.
“I think you’re all lying,” Mord persisted, “concealing intelligence of interest to the king.”
Gonji’s mordant tongue, one of the legacies of his Nordic mother, had lost its taste for diplomacy.
“Very sorry, maho-tsukai-san—Sir Magician—but I believe your great powers are being wasted on this effort at intimidation. Why don’t you try them at divining instead—”
“Gonji!” Flavio warned curtly.
“—I would think it to be a simple matter for one who can call up giants and foul carrion birds.”
Mord raised his arms forebodingly.
Chairs and benches scraped at all the surrounding tables, a few screams heard as people scrambled to clear the area. Gonji grabbed up the Sagami, its blade whining from the scabbard as he leaped clear of the table.
“Gonji—no!” the delegates were crying out.
“Mord—stop this!” came Klann’s bellow.
The sorcerer worked at forming a shape in the air before him, something long and slithery and fashioned of blue smoke that wriggled and twined its way through the air between him and the samurai.
Gonji stood still as marble with the katana in a two-handed clench at middle guard, the hilt before his navel, the point fixed on Mord.
“Disperse it, Mord!”
The shape descended in a sinuous wave. Gonji took a single step back and raised his blade high over his head for a strike. He felt hands at his shoulders, ignored them.
“Send it away!”
Mord brushed one hand across his body in a wave of dispersal, and the shape turned to sparkling blue scintillas that shone an exquisite instant and then fell to the floor as dust.
“Forgive me, sire,” Mord said, head hanging low, sullen eyes gleaming out of the golden mask’s sockets, “but this barbarian—who knows nothing of what he speaks—kindled my anger. But there was never anything to fear. Merely a warning against disrespectful tongues. I’ll take my leave, if it pleases you.”
“Yes-yes, go,” Klann said.
He moved off but stopped at the end of the table and leered back in Gonji’s direction.
“The shape you saw was but an illusion. The creature it suggests, however, is quite real in substance. I should be pleased to introduce you to it one day.”
Gonji stood with the Sagami in one hand along his side. He arched an eyebrow. “I’ll look forward to it.”
And Mord was gone with a rustle of robes.
Gonji took a deep breath, restoring his harmony. He experienced a sudden chill at the cold runlets of sweat that trickled under his tunic. His bristling nape hairs gave him an urge to scratch vigorously. But he forced a placid expression as he smartly returned the Sagami to its scabbard and placed both his swords back in his sash.
Already the hall rumbled with low voices retelling the way the incident had been perceived. By morning it would exist in a hundred versions, each more fantastic than the last.
“All right, everyone—eat, drink; make music, you musicians. We command it!” roared Klann’s voice. “This is a time for gaiety. No, not that funeral dirge!” he called to the gallery. “Give us a happy refrain!”
Gonji looked over his shoulder at Garth and nodded. It was the smith who had grasped him by the shoulders in an effort at restraint.
The delegates were sorting themselves out, restoring their dignity after the unsavory incident, when they received a shock that overwhelmed all others on this monumental day.
“And what of you all these years, mighty man-of-valor?” Klann was booming. “I see that it will have to be we who shatter your stony silence!”
Klann was addressing Garth.
CHAPTER FIVE
Gonji looked to Flavio and Milorad for an explanation, but there seemed to be not a glimmer of understanding between them. Flavio gaped and extended an upturned palm in perplexity as he watched Garth lumber to the king’s table.
“Well, Garth,” Klann intoned, eyes alight with emotion, “Gundersen, is it now? Gundersen indeed! Do you think that beard and a layer of fat can disguise you from us, Garth? Did you really believe we might have forgotten you and all your valiant deeds? Still a battler, I see, if your eye be any indication! We had heard rumors that you might be residing in these territories, and now our good cheer is complete. And yes—things have changed, haven’t they, gen-kori?
“All of you—hear me! Raise your cups in toast to this man you see before me. This is the former General Garth Iorgens, our onetime field commander, a great and noble warrior, if ever there was one, who twice—twice—saved us from death at the risk of his own life. All hail!”
A cheer went up from the crowd, and cups were tipped and sloshed in Garth’s honor.
Gonji regarded Flavio and Milorad suspiciously.
“Do you swear, both of you,” Gonji asked, “that you never knew anything of this?”
“I swear,” Flavio replied, as Milorad nodded vigorously. “I have known Garth for twenty-five years. He used to speak of his former military career, but never once did he mention with whom he served. This is all quite incredible.”
Gonji scratched his chin pensively as Garth was directed to Klann’s side of the table by Llorm officers, one of whom saluted him and clenched his hand warmly in greeting. Klann embraced the smith and bade him sit in the empty chair on his right, and the two began to speak in the Kunan tongue of the Akryllonians. Garth’s mood shifted almost at once. He grinned sheepishly as he spoke with Klann, red-faced to be the center of Klann’s back-slapping attention and doubtless the object of the mutterings that swept the hall. He avoided meeting eyes with the party from Vedun, knowing full well the time of accounting that would be his on the return ride from the castle.
Gonji watched the sincere display of nostalgic affection between the two men at the royal table, all thoughts of Mord displaced now. Nor did he miss the cautious looks that passed among some of the officers, especially General Gorkin and Captain Sianno. Something was troubling them.
“It’s going to be an interesting ride home.”
“Indeed, yes,” Flavio agreed.
The
festivities bloomed anew. Acrobats performed their gyrations down the central path, followed by a troupe of masked and costumed mummers, performing an ill-chosen somber pantomime that was jeered at by the drunken soldiers. Most of the Llorm families were gone now, and new bands of mercenaries had taken up places at empty tables. The thought again occurred that the 3rd Free Company might turn up in the hall. Gonji saw in memory the snarling captain, Navarez; his toady subordinate Esteban, he of the horse face and scarred eye; and Jocko—that gruff and grizzled old knave who had saved Gonji’s hide.
He smiled, tossed off the rest of his wine, and sloshed it around in his mouth. Let them come. It would be one cracking good reunion, neh?
Food and drink continued to parade from kitchen and larders. Ribaldry and raucous humor ran rampant. Mercenaries sang and bellowed and belched and chased one another, some tumbling to the floor in impromptu wrestling matches, to be joined by frolicsome dogs.
Gonji, Flavio, and Milorad washed from a ewer and budget brought by a pair of servant children, and the samurai noted with distaste how many of the mercenaries simply wiped greasy hands on the coats of the prancing, barking dogs.
As their cups were being refilled by Genya, Julian Kel’Tekeli strode up to Gonji, adjusting the hasps of his cape and half-armor with foppish elan.
“You seem anxious to use those, bodyguard,” Julian said, indicating Gonji’s sashed swords. Flavio and Milorad tensed. “I’ve yet to see them at work. Would you care to join me in an entertainment? An exhibition for this...august audience?”
“What do you have in mind?” Gonji’s head began clearing at once, the cobwebs of satiety dashed by suspicion.
“A demonstration,” Julian replied, smiling insincerely, “for the amusement of the king and his company. King Klann is an avid enthusiast of fighting skills, and it’s said that the fencing style of your world differs considerably from conventional saber, rapier, and broadsword fencing. We should all like to judge for ourselves.”
Gonji pondered the challenge a moment, drumming his fingers on the oaken planks before him. Two wise kami and a screaming demon chased through Gonji’s mind: First came the wise counsel that as long as he could avoid an overt display of his swordsmanship skill, he held the arrogant captain at a disadvantage; Julian was obviously consumed with a passion to know how well a man who espoused suicide before dishonor could fight. Then there was the stern voice of bushido, admonishing Gonji against showcasing skills that should be humbly held in check until they were needed in true combat. No such insulting request to show off would ever be made to a samurai at court in Dai Nihon.
But the demon of hatred was there, too, shouting down all good counsel. Part of him still roared for satisfaction, for a display of ken-jutsu technique that would inspire respect and fear in this haughty soldier who had become so large a figure in Gonji’s current circumstances. Julian was at once an employer and an iconic object of loathing and vengefulness. Indeed, when the time was right, he must have it out with Julian—had not the captain humiliated him at the inn by breaking the ceremonial short sword given Gonji by his mother? The thought brought an angry fire to his breast. Damn me for a compromising beggar....
And then he heard Flavio clear his throat tellingly, and remembered his promise.
“So sorry, Captain, but I’m afraid I promised the Elder I’d refrain from contentious displays. It seems I’ve trodden on my promise already.” He bowed to Julian.
Julian sidled over to Flavio, making small circling motions with the pommel of his sheathed saber and displaying his predatory white teeth. Tables were being cleared out of the center of the hall, to their right.
“Oh, come now, Master Flavio. No violence is intended here. Just a matching of pure skills. The king will be presiding. Surely there’s nothing to fear. You do wish to please the king, to win his favor, don’t you?”
Julian leaned close, attempting to intimidate Flavio. The wise old magistrate held his ground admirably and looked Julian in the eyes when he spoke.
“All right,” he said with measured calm, “with your assurance that it will only be an exhibition....”
“Good! After the lummoxes have their go, then.” He grinned toothily at Gonji under a cruelly curled lip.
The last of the mummers and a juggler were bullied out of the hall, and Klann halted the musicians’ by now cloying strains. Few women and children were left in the great hall, but all the courtesans remained at the expansive royal table, leaning forward with swollen eyes to leer at the weapons exhibition or snuggling against their escorts.
Klann looked on expectantly, licking beard-smothered lips and clapping the big smith on the back with anticipation.
A target from the practice ground was hastily procured. Soldiers bunched into standing pockets, some seated on others’ shoulders. They bellowed and cheered, sloshing their heady beverages as a brief archery contest ended in convincing victory for a squad of Llorm bowmen over their mercenary challengers.
The free companions evened the score in a clumsy staff battle; their giant champion—nearly the size of the dead Ben-Draba—knocked his Llorm counterpart senseless with a blow that sent his dented burgonet clattering halfway across the hall.
The throng heated to bloodlust, fueled by ale and wine. They weren’t going to be easy to please.
The samurai scratched at the tension itch under his topknot, breathing deeply and evenly to establish calm at the center of his being, wondering at Julian’s purpose in all this. Gonji would lose the advantage of surprise in tipping his fencing technique here. That was something Julian no doubt had thought through more clearly than Gonji himself had. He cursed to himself for having fallen into the trap so easily. Then he shrugged.
Show them what you wish them to see....
Flavio eased up close. “I know—it’s too late for you to back out honorably now,” the Elder said softly out of a corner of his mouth. “But I know that your deft handling of the situation will not disappoint me.”
Gonji looked to him admiringly. Smiled graciously and bowed. It was not what he expected to hear, and Flavio’s quiet faith at the last both fortified him and instilled respect and affection for the burdened leader of Vedun.
Ignoring a wildly popular wrestling match between two blubbery buffoons who would have given any worthy sumo dyspepsia, Gonji began to stretch languidly, to loosen up, wondering what he would be asked to do. The recently injured shoulder still hurt, but it would be all right, certainly no problem during an exhibition. Karma. What was more important was to be alert and cunning; the insufferable commander of free companions had maneuvered him into a tricky position.
Then Julian stepped into the center of the hall amid cheers and braying hoots. Courtesans expressed their admiration of the handsome captain as he ritually doffed his cape and breastplate, then his shirt, revealing a sleeveless tunic, sweat-stained at the armpits.
Four candelabra were placed in a square about eight feet on a side in the cleared space. Julian selected two gleaming sabers and strode to the center of the display. At his order, all but the centermost, tallest candles were removed by servants, and Julian gently stretched out with his slim blades to measure his distance from the remaining four lit tapers.
Raising one sword to direct the audience to silence, he bowed deeply to Klann.
“Milord, a demonstration of speed, blade sharpness, and the economy of movement which are the mainstays of the modern fencer.” He bowed again and took a step backward.
A calculated pause. Then—
A sharp, blurring series of saber-passes, right-left, right-left—the four candle wicks were extinguished....
A rapid movement of the shimmering right-hand blade—almost all movement confined to the wrist—and like precision machine-work one candle pattered to the floor in sausage-sized chunks. Before the last had hit the floor, the candle to Julian’s left was similarly diminished. And as approving cheers rose in pitch from the crowd, the captain performed a brisk quarter-turn and lashed out with
both blades at the last two candles, the increased strain showing in broader arm movement as he reduced them to stuttering tallow droplets.
Applause and bellows of delight. Looks of disbelief and deferential chatter.
“Wonderful, Julian!” Klann called out from the royal table, where even Garth clapped his approval.
Genya stood at Gonji’s right, lips pursed petulantly. “Show-off,” she said. “I can’t stand him. I hope you show him up good!”
Gonji chortled and tossed his head back, but there was no minimizing the man’s brilliance of control.
Julian pointed and nodded at Gonji in invitation. Gonji bowed in return.
The samurai ambled forward with a proud, leopard-like motion. He had already warmed to the competitive atmosphere, feeding off the energy and attention of the crowd. Even the guffaws and insulting catcalls he heard were turned back at the callers in the form of a hard, menacing, self-assured gaze. He was feeling in harmony with the center of his power, and his swords were with him.
He removed his tunic to reveal a tight-muscled, wiry frame and hard, flat stomach, now glistening with a fine film of perspiration. Sarcastic snickers and predictable insults rang in the hall. He could hear the references to his body scars, especially those on the left shoulder—the long white reminder of his once-beloved Reiko’s solemn duty and the unhealed dagger-gash, trophy of a Mongol late in King Klann’s employ. Luba, the ugly, bald warrior Gonji had dispatched in the boxing match, was saying something to Gonji from across the hall, but it was indecipherable in the din.
As he re-girded his obi tightly about his waist, he called for uncut melons from the kitchen. These he had skewered atop the candelabra. He crossed his swords in his obi, the hilts in opposition, and approached the king.
He bowed deeply to Klann, then to the howling soldiers. Returning to Klann, he said:
“A very effective demonstration, hai—if one’s enemies are the thickness of tapers, sire—”
A roar of laughter. Julian’s ears reddened.