by Rypel, T. C.
Just when they began to wonder about the servant’s prolonged absence, the secretary from the Ministry arrived, breathless, in the foyer.
“Master Flavio, Master Flavio—the king—King Klann comes here! Michael—the king is coming!”
“What?”
They rushed over to hear the news.
“Here—calm yourself, Vito,” Flavio urged. “What are you saying?”
“The king is coming to Vedun,” the messenger repeated, pop-eyed. “A courier came, brought a message. Milorad has it at the Ministry. Klann wants a conclave with all the city leaders, perhaps over a return banquet—”
“All right, all right, slow down. When is he coming—today? Tomorrow?”
“Day after tomorrow. Milorad and Lorenz and the others have begun preparations already. We need you, good sirs—please come!” Vito rushed back out and sprinted back to the Ministry.
“Well, that changes everything, doesn’t it?” Flavio said with smug relief.
“Perhaps,” Michael added uncertainly.
“It does indeed,” Garth agreed flatly.
“Nein,” Gonji said, giving them pause. “It makes things even better for us.”
“We could kill Klann while he’s here,” Wilf said with shining eyes.
“Nein! I forbid such talk!” Garth bellowed, pointing a thick arm at his son. “Wilfred, you’re out of place here. Leave us.” Wilf glared at him but made no move to go.
“I should say that’s out of the question,” Flavio added. “Wilfred, I’m surprised at you.”
“Be at ease,” Gonji told them. “That’s not what I meant. It isn’t necessary, and in any case the militia isn’t ready for so ambitious an undertaking yet. By all means, make your appeals for peace and sanity to Klann. Flavio’s dream deserves every chance to survive. But I think he’s coming here to threaten, to make a big show of royal indifference over your efforts at salvaging the harvest. And he’ll surely be under heavy guard. Patrols in the province will be thinned. That makes the foray to Zarnesti easier on us, if we do it while he’s in Vedun. And all the city leaders will be here. There’ll be less reason to suspect local involvement in such a far-off place.” His vision grew distant. “The one big problem is that the Elder’s bodyguard won’t be present.... That can’t be helped. I’ll have to risk it, create a cover story. The rest of you can just feign ignorance of my whereabouts.”
“Why can’t you wait until after Klann comes?” Garth asked, looking pained.
“Because, my friend, if what he has to say doesn’t appease you, he’ll surely suspect the city for any subsequent action, however far away.”
“I remind you that the vote isn’t in yet,” Flavio said. They returned to their wine, sipping quietly and exchanging lifeless small talk.
The servant returned from the catacombs, looking sheepish. Baron Rorka had rejected the proposal. Shredded it, to be more exact. “You’d have thought it was my idea,” the servant declared.
“Well, that’s that, then, eh, Michael...? Michael?” Flavio’s relief abruptly turned to anxiety. Michael stared across the table from behind clenched hands.
“Gonji...,” the protégé began thoughtfully, “I’ll vote in favor of the foray on one condition: that I can go along.”
Flavio gasped. Garth stared, open-mouthed. Roric drew back in surprise. Wilf’s rapid breath whistled through his nostrils.
“The leaders will be expected here, Michael,” Gonji reminded.
“Those are my terms.”
Gonji glanced around the room. “Then I suppose I must agree to them,” Gonji’s pulse raced, his thoughts a-boil. What’s he trying to prove? I’ve enough to worry about without....
Michael nodded. “Three-to-two in favor of the foray.”
“Michael,” Flavio said, frowning, “what’s become of you, the boy I once knew? The education, the careful nurture of a promising young statesman? I thought you’d arrested this...unspiritual passion for vengeance.”
“People change,” Michael responded. But he averted his eyes from his father’s lifelong friend.
“Sí, but it is always hoped that change comes for the better....”
“You’d better see about the planning,” Garth told Flavio, “for the meeting with the king. We’ll wring good from this, I assure you, my friend. This opportunity will not be wasted.” The massive smith leaned forward determinedly on his meaty fists.
“You go in my stead, Garth,” Flavio replied, slowly ambling from the parlor. “I’m afraid I have no heart for these deceitful preparations. I’d just like to be alone for now. Make yourselves comfortable in my home, gentils.”
When he passed Gonji the samurai stood and bowed deeply. “I am truly sorry, Master.” But Flavio ignored him and left the room. Gonji ground his teeth over the Elder’s dismay, his own insides in turmoil.
* * * *
Lydia selected from among her gowns in the bedchamber’s closet, winnowing out those she deemed unsuitable for the banquet, laying out the three finalists on the bed. “Dignity and grace. I need the best combination....”
The argument was over, and as usual even in apparent defeat she had won. Her arrogant dismissal of the matter annoyed Michael. He couldn’t drop it.
“So I’m going on the sally, and that’s that,” he said with the forcefulness of the victor, feeling none of it.
“Stupid,” she said daintily without looking up from her selecting. “What are you trying to prove? Your mother disowned you because you’d rather lead an insular colony of peasants than assume a more promising career, and now you want to die as a savage.”
“These are violent times, Lydia. Why is it all right for other men to change with the social order but not me? And don’t think I haven’t seen you admiring other men’s prowess in the cavern. It’s a different matter, though, when I show my skill with the sword, isn’t it?”
She began disrobing.
“Whatever are you talking about? Whomever you’ve seen watching with fluttering heart, it hasn’t been me. Do you think I should wear the chemisette, or would the ladies of court be scandalized if I—”
“I don’t give a damn about the gowns! I won’t be there anyway.” He slumped into a chair, brooding.
She peered over at him. “Talk sense. You’re no killer, you’re a statesman. The future belongs to men who can use their intellect, not just their vulgar muscle. There’s a time and place for fighting, and the kind of men to do it, but....” In her poise and self-possession she had always failed to understand one thing about herself: the power she seemed to have that made men posture as what they were not, act insincerely, and play coy games. Even her husband.
She thought about the news.... Sí, now was the time.
“Men are such fools,” she said amusedly. “Look at me.”
He glanced over disdainfully. She stood naked in the flattering soft lamplight. He looked away, smirking.
“What do you think you’re going to do—seduce me out of my resolve?”
“That would be unfair. And, I think...unnecessary. Look at me.”
There was a girlish humor in the quality of her voice that made him regard her questioningly. He felt an immediate pang of desire. She had struck a sultry profile. His eyes coursed over her exquisite hair, her proudly jutting breasts, limned in the alluring flicker of the oil lamp.
“You’re getting fat,” he teased.
“Sí—very.”
He looked closer. “Oh—Sancta María!—Lydia—you—when?” He rushed over and embraced her.
She laughed softly. “In the spring.”
He drew back and held her at arm’s length, the present situation taunting him. “That’s a long way off, isn’t it?”
Her face took on a hard edge. “You’re going to be a father...if you live.”
A sudden trembling seized him, made speech difficult. “Lydia, I’m committed, and that’s that.” He turned away.
“Listen to me, Michael. We must not do this terrible thing. Life must go on
as it has. It will, if we allow it. If you go out and die on this crazy adventurer’s sally, I—I can’t swear to you that I’ll honor your memory to our child.” She made a tiny sobbing sound. “God forgive me, but you bring out the viper in me sometimes.” She wrapped herself in a robe and stalked out of the bedchamber.
Michael grasped the bedpost, his mind sifting through his anguished thoughts. It suddenly occurred to him how reason weighed against Gonji’s foray, and how many reasons there were for him not to go along.
* * * *
“...a weak conjurer of smoky serpents when I found you....”
Quite so, Mord thought, smiling to himself as he sat with arms folded in his subterranean sanctum far below the castle halls and ramparts.... Yes, that’s what you were led to believe: an inept magician with erratic sorcerous potential. Someone who might be of limited use to you in your undying quest after the Akryllon that loathes you. Is that what you think, Your Majesty? Good. Your own folly aids the Grand Scheme. And now...time for a new turn, which you yourself have facilitated, O Five-in-One Most Sublime! I was unsure what to do. My mana grows weak; I cannot drain your people too quickly lest I cast suspicion on myself; and you grant me these sacrificial provincials only with reluctance, and in insufficient numbers. Soon...in a matter of days...the full moon—the faith chant at its most efficacious—a new imputation of power. And until then you have made it easy. Your foolishness could not have been better channeled. After the city conclave I’ll be rid of both a weak, fearful king and the place I loathe....
He thought of his parents, cult worshipers of the serpent demon. Could they have ever guessed how great his stature would one day be among the Dark Master’s acolytes? And of the long-dead priests of ancient Vedun—long dead whilst he stalked the earth, immortal!—who had marked him as a monster to the world of men.
And lastly he thought terrible thoughts of his plan for the new colony of cross-worshiping pilgrims who would suffer countless agonies for every pain the priests had inflicted upon him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Gonji awoke, startled, to find Tralayn seated beside his cot, smiling wanly. He was in her house.
He remembered: Several trainees had napped there prior to the morning’s training session, an important one, where plans for the next day’s foray into Zarnesti would be hatched. Now all the men were gone save he.
Nine bells rang in the distance.
“Spirits of the dead—nine bells!” He swung his legs off the cot. A headache made him wince slightly. “I’ve often wondered what it would look like to wake up and see your face. Now I know—why didn’t you wake me with the others?” he finished in a rush.
“You have time. You have other matters to attend to this morning,” she replied enigmatically.
The samurai, still bound by webs of sleep that parted only with effort, pondered her words dully.
“I’ve waited to break my fast till you awoke. Will you join me?”
“Mmmm,” he grunted noncommittally. She took it as an assent, then brought bread, fruit, and fresh milk to the cupboard where she had set him up. He rubbed his eyes and stretched for a bit, then washed himself in a basin and sat to eat.
“Your place is like a brothel these days,” Gonji observed, an irreverent eye-twinkle punctuating his words in just the right place.
Tralayn grinned, an infrequent gesture, judging by the freshness of the crinkles around her eyes. She was pretty, Gonji decided, in her way, or at least had been. Her age couldn’t even be guessed at.
“You know, you keep trying to irk me,” she said. “You’re the only one in this city—aside from the soldiers, of course—who dares to do that. Do I frighten you?” Her eyes flashed like a stormy emerald sea.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gonji replied in a low voice, viewing her askance. “More milk, dozo.”
She poured. “Do you know why I like you? You remind me of the child I never had, whom I would imagine would comport himself just the way you do around me. A child is always the last to treat his parent with respect...I think,” she continued, leaning her chin on her clamped hands, “that underneath your hubris you’re really just a lonely person, desperate to be loved and accepted, perhaps a bit—”
Gonji slammed his goblet down and scratched his beard stubble. “I think that will do, eh? It’s a little too early in the day to be picked apart by a soothsayer. What is this business you have for me today?”
She leaned back and spread her fingers on the table. “Today you learn what you’ve asked. All that I can tell you. I fulfill my end of our bargain.”
Gonji strove to contain his excitement. “Ahh, yoi! It’s about time, neh? But...why so suddenly?”
“Because yesterday, when I received word of Klann’s coming to Vedun, it became clear to me that my death has been arranged.”
Gonji asked her no more until they had finished eating and descended into the catacombs, where Gonji found Tora saddled, as well as a bay colt for the prophetess.
“Where are we going?” he asked.
“I’m taking you to meet with Simon Sardonis. We’re going to confront him, if he will see us, for whatever that may be worth to you.”
Gonji’s pulse raced. He looked himself over carefully. He had on his stained tunic. That would have to do. His kimono, which he favored for social encounters, was at the Gundersens’, and his light armor he fancied too bullish. Again he was overwhelmed by the sensation of destiny in unfolding revelation.
They rode out into the southern valley and carefully crossed the heavily patrolled road. When they were deep enough into the forest trails to resume normal speech, Tralayn began the chilling tale of the being known as Simon Sardonis, who might—or might not, Tralayn observed—be the legendary Deathwind whom Gonji sought....
* * * *
While Simon’s mother carried him, her husband was murdered and she, abducted by a Satan-worshiping cult leader, a demonic agent who called himself Grimmolech. In a foul ritual the young woman was raped by the evil priest, effecting in her womb a secondary conception, an energumen, a bestial body and soul which would coexist with that of Simon. Rescued by priests led by Father Dobret and sheltered in a convent throughout her tormented pregnancy, the woman died giving birth during a full moon to a raging wolf-child—a werewolf—whose only apparent connection with humankind was its bipedal structure. But for the intervention of Dobret, the monks would have destroyed the unholy thing on first sight.
But in the morning, after Dobret had kept a prayerful vigil over the snarling whelp, it was transformed before his eyes—in a pitiable, painful wracking of its form—into a fair-haired child, strong and healthy, his only unnatural mark being a pure white cross that blazoned unmistakably in his left palm. This Dobret took as a sign of divine favor on the unfortunate innocent. The young priest named him Simon Sardonis—his human father’s given name coupled with a perverse surname that occurred to Dobret in a moment of anger that the Lord would permit so accursed a birth. He took the orphan in as a ward of the Church and raised him as a Christian.
Simon quickly evinced uncanny physical and intellectual prowess and a ready spirituality, but for the one night each month—the night of the full moon—when the energumen would again hold sway, its own wolfish appearance bursting through the human flesh in an agonizing transformation which, as described by Simon himself in relation to a strange primitive memory of his mother’s birth agonies, was akin to giving birth over the entire course of his body.
It was found that if the werewolf could be kept from killing and partaking of the flesh and blood of any warm-blooded creature on this night, he would be free of the savage spirit’s corporal takeover until the next full moon. But if he killed, the transformation would occur each night for the entire month, with the important exception that he, Simon, would then be in command of the taunting energumen’s awesome physical presence. Yet this was something he loathed, for its achievement meant that he had killed. Restrained by specially fashioned shackles during the full moon,
he came to call this the Night of Chains.
When, on his twenty-first birthday, he was told the full tale of his shocking origin, Simon became embittered that God would so curse him. He left the monastery, obsessed with the vengeful notion of tracking down and destroying Grimmolech. Dobret journeyed with him, his sole confidant in the world of men, all the while endeavoring to steer Simon from this angry vendetta and into thoughts of the great purpose God must have meant for his incredible powers.
Dobret viewed him as an angry spirit who should be directed against the evil things of the night, the Wrath of God. But Simon could see himself only as an accursed soul, shunned by the world of men and animals alike, who could sense in him an inhuman strangeness even when he was in human guise. Throughout their itinerant years together Simon and Dobret had even found it difficult to find monasteries that would shelter them.
About a year ago their journey had brought them to Tralayn at Vedun. And although the monks at Holy Word refused to shelter Simon, regarding him as possessed by the demon that cohabited his body with his own soul, the outcast did find sympathetic acceptance by Flavio, Garth, Michael, and Michael’s younger brother, Mark, with whom he formed as close a friendship as any he had ever known, apart from the priest’s. Dobret convinced Simon that a spiritual respite would do them both good, a sabbatical during which Simon would study with Tralayn, searching the Scriptures and other ancient writings to try to shed light on his purpose.
Residing alone in a cave at the base of the wooded mountain slopes, shackled each full moon with heavy chains wrought by Garth, and released the following morning by the key carried to him by Mark, Simon had lived the last year on the fringe of the unsuspecting city of Vedun. But he had grown restless and frustrated with his fruitless study, and had been on the verge of leaving with Dobret to continue his quest, after the priest’s next monthly visit to Vedun. By now, however, he had doubtless gone for himself to Holy Word to discover the outrage that had been done, and it seemed clear from the reports of slaughtered Klann patrols that his vengefulness had been rekindled....