by Rypel, T. C.
* * * *
The leaders converged in the boulder-strewn tunnel area with the excited militiamen.
“Now what is so important—” Rorka began.
“Look!” several men cut in.
Jiri Szabo unfolded the bundled rag he carried. A new pistol lay within, polished and gleaming. Greta was with him. From a pouch lashed to her leg under her skirts she produced powder, pistol balls, and a spanner for the wheel-lock firearm.
“Yoi! Good!” Gonji said, hefting the gun.
“Where did you get it, Jiri?” Roric Amsgard asked.
“My father. He bought it last night from one of the traveling merchants, who smuggled it in concealed in his wagon.”
“You’ll need a lot more of these, I’m afraid,” Gonji said.
“I thought you didn’t approve of firearms,” Michael observed.
“I don’t care for them, it’s true. They’re unreliable and ignoble, and one day fighting men of honor will abandon them for the elegance of sword and bow, the strong arm and stout heart.”
Rorka snorted. “Are you really so naive, my friend?”
“Iye, but I can dream, can’t I?” He chuckled mirthlessly. “No, men with money who crave power will see that they’re made better, and someday wars will be won by the rich. A sad fact of our time. I’m an idealist, you see, and the world has passed me by. A relic before my time—not so different from yourself, Herr Baron.” He returned to the archery ground.
Rorka stroked his chin thoughtfully and pondered the samurai’s words, admiring his aptness of observation.
In the next two days, three more pistols turned up in the catacombs.
* * * *
By the middle of the second week, over three hundred men and forty women could be counted upon to attend any given day’s training sessions. They were now past the attrition caused by frequent early injury, poor conditioning, fear, disillusionment, and disagreement over principle. Even Strom and Boris had by now returned to train, if half-heartedly, under Garth with the staff, though they steered clear of Gonji.
Now, too, the number of men swelled daily due to defections from Phlegor’s guild, who had grown discouraged with their leader’s shaky efforts at preparation with poor equipment and inadequate facilities; they had been training in small numbers in cellars and at a secret weapons cache in the hills. Phlegor was generously offered a command post on the military council, but still he refused, insisting that the action they trained for was too far in the future to do any good.
“He says he won’t produce goods all winter for these bastards while they pick the bones of Vedun clean,” said the guild courier who took him the message.
Their fears intensified. What was the guild leader planning? Gonji found the situation vexing. The only sure answer was Phlegor’s elimination, which he tried to make them understand via circumlocution: to broach the subject head-on was, he knew, dangerous to his tenuous position with some of the city leaders. The suggestion would be morally repugnant and unacceptable, and again Gonji would appear the barbarian savage in their eyes.
Thus was another dilemma added to Gonji’s growing list.
* * * *
Michael took a sharp crack to his morion helmet and went down on one knee. Paolo withdrew as several people rushed forward to check on the stunned young leader, who staved off their anxious ministrations.
Gonji scratched under his harness, but the nervous itch wouldn’t abate. Michael had flinched again, reacting to a feint, thus opening the line of attack that might have crushed his skull. Lydia peered over at her downed husband from the grotto of the “Ladies Hospitaler,” as the support group had dubbed itself, but she remained at her place, laving a gash on a Squire’s thigh.
The samurai blew out a long breath. “Paille, what’s that story of David, King David, from the Christian bible?”
Paille looked up from his diorama of Vedun, where he had been placing a figure of himself painting atop the Ministry building while a battle raged in the streets below.
“You mean David and Goliath? Are you planning to engage Tumo with a slingshot? I’m not sure God would so favor you, you heathen,” the artist said jestingly.
“Non, I mean...about the woman,” Gonji replied, his gaze distant, taking in something beyond the limits of the cavern.
Paille cast him a wily glance. “You mean Bathsheba, the one he married after first sending her husband out to be slain? That’s one of the—What are you thinking, monsieur le samurai?”
“Nothing,” Gonji responded, refocusing his eyes and moving off.
“Nothing good, I can tell you that,” Paille shouted after him, a worried frown creasing his brow.
* * * *
Patterns of armor and dress were taking shape in the training ground.
The men who chose to rally around Rorka and his knights emulated their dress, slowly accumulating, through purchase or improvisation, light field armor of steel, morion helmets, and shields or bucklers. The armor was worn only during full field exercises, and its emphasis was on protection. For normal daily training they wore tunics, jupons, or quilted gambesons, many of which sported Rorka’s lion-and-cross coat-of-arms. These militiamen came to be called Squires.
Those who chose Gonji’s kendo—the Japanese “way of the sword”—acquired still lighter armor of leather, scale, and thin steel plate, covering mainly the front of the body, and emphasizing maneuverability. They trained shirtless like the samurai, learned much of the Japanese language and manner, and took to wearing what Gonji called a hachi-maki—“headband of resolution.” The leather sword harness for the back became a popular item of equipment as well, inasmuch as a great deal of mounted fighting was practiced and anticipated. These trainees came to call themselves bushi—“warriors,” and there was keen competition between bushi and Squires.
Near the end of the second week, the militia held its long-awaited archery contest, the Gray knights showing their prowess with the crossbow at shorter distances, but the magnificent English longbow rising to the forefront as the targets receded from view.
Shot groups of three shafts at each distance were launched, the targets then moved back twenty yards. Eliminations were swift, and soon only Gonji and the splendid Karl Gerhard remained on the shooting line. They matched each other nearly shot-for-shot, miss-for-miss, the watching throng breathless. Gonji would score a perfect round, and Gerhard would follow in kind, his endearingly doleful countenance displaying no thrill of triumph beyond a curt nod with each hit. One man would miss a shot, the other would similarly fail. Then at 190 yards Gonji could manage only a rim hit, missing rather handily on both other shots. He unstrung his bow and bowed to Karl, but Gerhard declined the resignation and shot his round, missing narrowly on the first, hitting the second, and launching his worst shot of the day on the third, which skimmed the ground well short of the target.
“Are you toying with me, Sir Archer?” Gonji asked.
“Nein,” Gerhard replied, “but we could do this all day, and I’m bored. Let’s go for it all.”
The militiamen stirred excitedly as the pair bowed and the target was moved back to the farthest wall, scarcely in view to some, the nearsighted among them waving their hands in surrender and walking away amid laughter and jests.
“Hey, old man,” Berenyi yelled to Nagy, “why don’t you go squint in front of the target so you can see?”
“Get off my back, you young stud, or you’ll be wearing one of those arrows where it’ll do you the most good.”
Berenyi farted, and his companions roared and broke for cover.
“Da, you know where I’m talking about!” Nagy roared.
Wilf helped Gonji restring his bow.
“One shot per round, first hit wins,” Gonji declared. Gerhard nodded and bade Gonji begin.
The samurai missed, planting his shaft high on the far cavern wall. Gerhard’s shot wrung a hopeful groan from the audience—the spotters relayed that he had missed by a scant foot to the left. Gonji follow
ed with a sleekly arcing, beautiful drop shot that hit a yard too high. An electric thrill ran through the audience as they groaned, shaking their heads. Gerhard’s third volley caused the spotters to leap into the air, an action that transferred itself through the cavern in a gradual wave that lost its immediacy as it gained distance from the target. But the cheering was thunderous.
The target was rushed forward—Gerhard had missed the bull’s-eye by a hand’s width. They measured the distance the pair had been shooting: 340 yards.
* * * *
(from the Deathwind of Vedun epic:)
“...and the stalwarts did learn well under the Red Blade’s direction, at the last striking targets with their unerring bows at distances in excess of six hundred forty yards...and the Red Blade did dispense his sublime battlefield wisdom....”
* * * *
“What about the monsters?” a voice whined from the seated tactics-briefing crowd.
“You ‘what-about-the-monsters’!” Gonji yelled archly in reply, spinning and pointing in the direction of the voice. “Don’t let them catch you, and they won’t hurt you!” A spate of nervous laughter.
“Seriously, sensei,” Jiri Szabo spoke up, “do you have a plan for the wyvern and the giant, for anything else Mord might bring against us?”
“Of course,” Gonji replied firmly, “I’ve told you as much. Next question!” He averted his eyes from Wilf, with whom he’d discussed the “plan,” whose simple reality was all too apparent to any who cared to reflect on it.
The skeptics who already had shook their heads sullenly.
* * * *
“Remember that an enemy who regards you too casually probably has accomplices stropping their swords and leveling their guns just out of sight. Be wary....”
* * * *
“Remember: They outnumber us, but we’re better than they are. And we’re fighting for your loved ones, your homes, your way of life. They don’t rattle easily, but like you they freeze for an instant when something growls at them. So growl!” Gonji stalked before them, sword bared, as he lectured. “Eye contact!” he shouted. “Stare through them. Posture yourself like a champion, carry yourself like you’ve already beaten them. Kiyai! Kiyai! Kiyai!—Howl when you strike! They can be intimidated.”
“What about their guns?”
“Cholera-pox on their guns!” Dead silence. “You have guns, and you’ll have more. And you have the longbows—and the long swords, always better than guns, neh? They don’t fizzle in the rain—and we’ll probably begin our action in the rain—and they don’t need to be spannered and loaded—”
“With all due respect, sensei,” Vlad Dobroczy broke in, “suppose you charge a mercenary in the rain, and you howl and swagger and swing your sword truly, but his courage doesn’t fail him and neither does his pistol? Then what?”
Gonji sheathed his blade and folded his hands behind his back. “Then you face the fact of death that is always with us, and you fall back on your final armament.”
“What’s that?”
“Your faith.”
Grumbling and crestfallen looks.... Rorka, standing at the back of the group, turned and walked off, shaking his head sadly.
* * * *
They sat in Tralayn’s parlor, sipping the jasmine tea Flavio had acquired from a traveling merchant, to Gonji’s great delight.
“Tralayn,” Gonji asked, suddenly serious, “what do you think happened to the crops?”
“Mord,” she replied at once. “Mord destroyed them.”
“So desu ka? To what purpose?”
“To incite a rebellion that would see the city crushed.”
“Klann wouldn’t want that,” Garth declared.
“Perhaps not,” she replied. Then she fixed her gaze on Gonji. “Gonji, I have a terrible suspicion, founded on an ill omen, that...something terrible has happened at the monastery. By your own admission you’ve been there since the invaders came. You must tell me now—what is the current circumstance of Holy Word?”
“You’ve been to the monastery?” Roric asked, surprised. He alone among them was not privy to the knowledge of Simon Sardonis or his connection with Father Dobret. “Why haven’t you said anything? People have tried to get there to see what’s become of the monks, but no one can get by the blockade of Borgo Pass, not without a fight.”
Gonji’s spirit sagged. The intelligence could be crushing to their morale and might shatter his fragile influence. But he decided to clear the air and told them what had become of Holy Word and the nearby peasant village, and of his part in the outrages.
“God in heaven,” Flavio breathed. A funereal dismay seized them all.
“Zarnesti. The village must be Zarnesti,” Michael said in a shaky voice, staring into his cup.
“Ja,” Roric agreed.
“I’m sorry,” Gonji said at length. “It was because of these things that I left Klann’s free companions. I wish to make reparation at least in part by helping you free your city.”
There were sympathetic nods and half-hearted mutters that he should not burden himself with guilt over what surely would have happened anyway. But Michael and Roric shortly took their leave of them, after agreeing reluctantly to Gonji’s wish that he be allowed to tell Rorka himself, in his own time.
“I suspected,” Tralayn announced when they had gone.
“So there is no help forthcoming from the Church,” Flavio added somberly, “unless Rorka’s missing patrols are able to find it in Austria.”
“Iye. I’m afraid they never made it out of the province,” Gonji advised. His companions crossed themselves.
At length, as Gonji, Flavio and Garth sat sipping glumly, Tralayn asked the samurai: “What was the message you had for Simon Sardonis?”
“Just one of forbearance,” he replied. “Dobret wanted him to go on alone, without seeking vengeance against Klann for what happened to him at the monastery.”
“If you had told me when you arrived, I might have been able to persuade him to join with us in our efforts.”
“If I had told you when I arrived, I wouldn’t be part of those efforts. And you still owe me information about this...valiant loner Simon, and the Deathwind.”
“Loner, indeed,” she said, smiling wryly.
“You still spread this business about the divine Deliverer among the militia. He’s gone, Tralayn. The reluctant hero has fled Vedun in its time of need. I have my own idea about the identity of your Deliverer. And you yourself once wondered whether I wasn’t the—”
“No, he’s not gone. But we’re not acting in concert, either.”
“What do you mean?”
“Two more mercenaries dead, on the road into the valley. I saw their bodies myself this morning. It was clearly his work...the work of the thing....” She drifted off dreamily. “Too late...and for the wrong reason. For vengeance, instead of the restoration of Vedun....”
She bowed her head. “I shall not be with you much longer.”
They looked to one another uneasily, troubled by the ominous portent of her words.
* * * *
Stefan Berenyi came running out of the wide tunnel leading into the valley, arriving breathlessly at the center of the training ground. A harbisher and metal founder waited at the tunnel entrance for some signal from him. The three had been behaving curiously since the break between sessions began, carrying bundled goods from other tunnels across the cavern in mysterious fashion.
Now Berenyi formed his hands around his mouth and tooted a heraldic fanfare. He pointed to the broad valley tunnel—
Klaus clanked onto the ground aboard a massive armored destrier of eighteen hands, himself covered completely with old-style plate armor. He carried a huge shield and battleaxe, the buffe of his burgonet swinging open on its hinge to reveal his broad grin.
The catacombs rang with cheers and laughter.
* * * *
The military council slumped around a table deep into the night. The late session had ended an hour earlier. Th
e leaders were weary and irritable, and as always the sorest points of planning were dredged up at these times.
“So Phlegor continues to be a problem...,” Garth mused.
“What do you suggest we do about him, Gonji?” Michael asked. “You have an answer for every other question of policy.” There was neither sarcasm nor rancor in the statement, but rather an effort at levity.
Gonji shrugged. “I think my suggestion would be...unacceptable.”
“Render him...hors de combat,” Garth said, staring straight ahead, arms folded.
“Assassinate him?” Roric asked, shocked.
Michael shuddered. “But that’s...murder.”
“Not necessary to go that far,” Garth corrected.
Tralayn rocked back on her stool. “If only we could destroy the evil wizard,” she thought aloud.
“Hai, sounds easy, doesn’t it?” Gonji said with a wry face. “Just mow down his monsters and—Anyway I’m not convinced Klann will do as he says, so sorry, friend smith. I don’t think he’s any more trustworthy than old goldface. And his hired killers will make Vedun a living hell.”
“What about those monsters?” Rorka said. “Once and for all, what are we going to do? Gonji, what are these secret plans you’ve smugly saved for dealing with the wyvern and the giant and who knows what else—”
“What do you suppose I’ve been planning? Isn’t it obvious?” He waved his arm toward the weapons cache. “Longbow, spear, what pistols we have; pole-arms and swords against the giant...the flapping filth, when he alights. The hearts of men! What other resource have we, in the absence of magick of our own? Faith and steel and righteousness—” The baron was rising petulantly, and Gonji raised his voice. “—and you’ve been no help at all, so sorry, with your defeatist attitude! You know they look to you for support of my every statement, and what do they see? An old man with head held low, slinking away....” He caught himself, regretting the words at first, but glad to have spoken his mind. The others were speechless.
“Ja, an old man,” Rorka replied, reaching for his cloak, “but at least this old man will not have on his conscience the deaths of many young men who believed in the impossible. You’ve done a good job of molding their minds, preparing them for a death they can’t even conceive. Your...bushi!”