by Rypel, T. C.
* * * *
Gonji began to laugh, an embittered, humorless sound. “You’re quite mad, woman, do you know that?” There was anger in his tone, and pain. He seemed bemused, victimized by the turnings of the cosmos.
She cast him a look filled with pity. “That’s...what Simon himself has also told me,” she replied tellingly. “I’m sorry...but it’s all quite true....”
Gonji spat. “Madwomen, fanatical priests—first Garth’s crazy story about Klann, and now....” He waved a hand aimlessly. “You people of Vedun are nothing but wild storytellers.” But then acceptance dawned, belief born of his own experiences with things supernatural, and he waxed bitter over the irony of his own quest. “Have I really come so far, wasted the years of my youth, in search of...a monster?”
“Do not judge him so harshly. He is the most tortured of men.” She closed her eyes and sighed expansively. “I rail at him when he reminds me of that, but I’m afraid it’s only too true.”
“Everyone has his pain,” Gonji said trenchantly. “That is karma. We must all bear it, each in his own way. Why should he think himself special?”
“His suffering is unique. He is a faithful follower of the Lord who is denied the exercising of his faith. The energumen clings to his soul like a leprous thing, taunts him incessantly within, channels its evil impulses into his every human weakness. He has killed many times under its influence, and the evil is not his alone; yet he bears the guilt as if it were. He can never be a man at peace with himself or his world.”
“You keep defending him—why?” Gonji snapped. “You all sheltered him, coddled him, suffered these—anti-social ways of his, and now he goes off on his own and places Klann’s sword at your throats. But you feel sorry for him. Why?”
“I pity him. We all do. And his potential as a soldier against supernatural evil is tremendous.”
Gonji snorted, struggling with his wrath, his loathing of the karma that had fallen to him. He found it difficult to think straight. “Do you think he’s the Deathwind?” he asked, a curious edge to his voice.
“I’m not sure. The alternative name of Grejkill springs from a Nordic legend of a man-beast believed in by certain northern folk. It tells of an icy devil-wind that accompanied the Grejkill’s birth. Dobret has said that when Simon was born in Burgundy a great wind almost tore the monastery from its stone foundation. Yet the Lord sent a great calm after the wind, and his mother died peacefully during—”
“Iye, Tralayn, I think you’re wrong about him,” Gonji cut in, abandoning his stoicism for a rare instance of self-pity. “I think that I am the Deathwind. My quest has been circular, as is all the cycle of life. I’ve been the fool. Seeking myself all the while, chasing after my own unreachable tail. Why haven’t I seen this before: Death-laden winds have certainly dogged my footsteps throughout this Europe of yours....” His words drifted off, and for a time they didn’t speak, Tralayn granting him space for his sullen ruminations.
They turned onto a trail Gonji recognized as one they’d used during the night of cavalry skirmish training.
“We practiced here the other night. In the rain.”
“Ja, you were very near to his cave,” she said. “He probably watched the entire exercise.”
“I hope he enjoyed the spectacle.”
Tralayn only smiled. From his effort at wry humor she deduced that he was coming to terms with his frustration and disappointment.
Tramping through fresh-scented pine forests, their horses’ hooves squelching in mud puddles and bogs formed by the recent rains, they neared the northern slopes of the Carpathians’ southern curve.
“Is he the beast these nights, then?” Gonji inquired, his face once again an impassive mask.
“Nein,” the woman replied. “When Mark was captured he was bringing the key to release him.” She saw his expression of surprise. “Ja, he’s unusually gifted, even without the savage strength of the wolf-thing. His power is greater than any man’s. That is why he has wreaked havoc with Klann’s patrols, struck fear in their hearts. He can meld into shadows in the night. The elements, within a certain limited distance, seem to obey him, or at least to reflect his moods. Something even he cannot adequately explain. And his recuperative faculties are remarkable. Yet...I think he wishes at times that they were not. I’m afraid Simon longs for the peace of death.” She drew a deep breath. “I believe that, more than victory over these brigands, he wishes to go to the grave, taking along as many of them as he can....” She peered sidelong at the samurai. “Can you understand my meaning?”
Gonji looked from the prophetess to the trail ahead, his vision parting the way, at last forming a bridge between his own soul’s disquiet and that of the mysterious cave-dweller.
“Hai. I’ve known the feeling.”
They arrived at a glade overgrown with thick grasses and tangled weed. Facing them was a steep rocky slope matted with scrub and bramble. Their horses nickered but displayed no alarm. They dismounted.
“He may be here,” she whispered, listening to the unnatural stillness. Not a bird twittered in the enveloping treetops, nor did any land creature scurry in the underbrush.
“Or it may just be that we’ve scared the animals into cover ourselves. Where’s this cave?” He seated his swords properly, tightening his obi. Then he raked the twigs and pine needles from his hair and adjusted his topknot. Dusting himself off, he caught up with Tralayn, who was already padding through the soft grasses.
To Gonji, it appeared they must certainly be heading for a climb; there was nothing before them but a wall of rock thatched with vine and bramble. But then they reached the facing of the rocks, and Tralayn swept aside a fall of vines to reveal the hidden cave entrance. Gonji stopped and peered into the forbidding blackness. An inner cry of caution placed him on alert: Was this some sort of trap? No, don’t be so suspicious. Telling a story such as she just told was no way of lulling a victim into complacency.
Producing flint and tinder from her cloak, Tralayn struck fire to a torch in the entrance tunnel.
“Simon,” she called, “forgive me. You’ve made it necessary for us to break our solemn oath.”
A chill surged through the samurai to hear the words. Cholera, they treated him like a godling. But the fight.... Remember how he so easily dealt with Ben-Draba. And those eyes—those inhuman silvery eyes....
“Come,” Tralayn said, motioning him into the cave.
Gonji followed her, breath held in check, hand on the hilt of the Sagami. They both exhaled as one. The cave was empty. Only the severe appointments of Simon’s habitation flared into view under the flambeau’s harsh light: a low oaken table and chair, two oil lamps, several books and scrolls and some scattered writing materials, an opened bedroll, some bundled clothing, a water bucket, and some foodstuffs.
Tralayn picked up a well-worn prayer manual. An almost mystical atmosphere prevailed in the cave, and Gonji avoided touching any of the man’s personal effects for no particular reason than the strangeness of it all.
“No, he hasn’t gone,” Tralayn said. “He stays, for his own selfish purpose, for vengeance.”
“Sometimes that’s as meaningful a duty as any.”
“No. Not for one raised by the teachings of the Christ.”
“Mmm. All right for an infidel samurai, though, neh?” he found himself probing, if only to hear her answer. But it was a discomfiting one.
“You have other reasons, and you know it. Your quest...you have friends now...and Helena—you care for her, don’t you?”
He swallowed. Discretion.
“Hai....”
PART THREE
“LE ROI EST MORT!”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
There were no training sessions on the day of the foray into Zarnesti. The council decided it would be best for the populace to be in the city for that day’s banquet meeting with Klann. A dawn assembly of the militia was held in the main cavern, at which the final selection of volunteers for the raid would be made. But
although the attack plan had been embraced lustily and the training for it was enthusiastic, the morning’s formation of the volunteer band was curiously tentative.
Everyone seemed to stand around and wait to see who would go first.
Gonji and Roric stood before them, along with Wilf, already posturing like a leader, Spine-cleaver proudly angled from the sash he now wore. About two hundred men shuffled uneasily in the ranks, nervous snickers and jests issuing from them as, for the first time, their confidence in new fighting abilities was to be put to the test. Several former military men were turned back for a time, first priority being given to those with no soldiering experience.
Baron Rorka stood nearby with some of his Grays, eyeing the proceedings imperiously, smugly amused at the initial difficulty they were finding in culling the thirty men Gonji sought. Michael was with him. Flavio’s protege had shown up with a curiously different deportment this morning. He had declined to go on the foray, to Gonji’s relief, admitting that he would indeed be expected at the meeting with the king. Yet he refused to change his vote, having cast the deciding one, and he seemed at ease for the first time Gonji could remember.
“All right, so who’s going?” Gonji called in German, the other leaders translating his words as he strode before them with hands clasped behind him.
Paolo Sauvini was the first to step forward. He spoke not a word, just looked at Gonji squarely, his hand on his sword hilt. Gonji studied him a second, then nodded and indicated that he should stand with the leaders.
“Oh, what the hell...you guys are going to need somebody to lighten it up.” Relaxing laughter accompanied Stefan Berenyi’s strut forward and the deep bow that so precisely imitated Gonji’s own.
Gonji smiled wryly. “Well, we have a man who can fix wheels and one to laugh at him! Keep coming.”
Jiri Szabo came next, looking wide-eyed and expectant. Ready but nervous. Gonji welcomed him. A few more men followed in a slow trickle. It was obvious that few wished to risk death so far from the city.
“What about me, sensei?” Klaus asked.
“Not this time, Klaus,” he responded gently. “Soon, neh?”
Wilf approached Vlad Dobroczy and spoke to him quietly. The farmer stood at the front of the ranks, arms crossed, but made no effort to join the band.
“What about you, Hawk?” Wilf asked. “You’re always spoiling for a fight.”
“Oh, sure,” the farmer replied, sneering, “works out just right, doesn’t it? He takes out the best fighting men, comes back alone, says they were hit before they knew what was happening—No, thanks. I’ll sit this one out and see what comes of it.”
Wilf glared at him. “You haven’t been listening. He’s not asking for the best, just the ones who need it most.”
Vlad stiffened as if he would jump at the smith, but then eased up, a look of surprise on his face to see Pete Foristek stride past, the huge farmer joining the raiding party.
“Welcome, big man,” Gonji said, grinning. Pete shook his hand firmly and took his place beside the others.
When they were about twenty, Nick Nagy came forward. “I fought with Magyar cavalry in my younger days, but you better let me come along or that young smart-ass Berenyi will never let me hear the end of it.” Gonji laughed and assented.
Berenyi broke wind. “Uh-oh—mark this sortie down as a defeat.” He and Nagy began to argue, and their comical jousting eased some of the tension out of the assembly. A few more men came forward.
“I’m going, eh?” Karl Gerhard asked, leaning on his deadly four-man bow.
“Hai, we’ll need your shooting eye to help overcome the pistols. We’re not taking any.”
“Well, then you’ll have to take me along, too,” Monetto advised, shaking his head, “for the same reason Nick’s going—unless you plan to lose Gerhard and Berenyi somewhere in the mountains!”
“All right,” Gonji declared, “get to your mounts and saddle them.”
Thirty-one volunteers ambled off across the cavern with mixed pride and apprehension.
“Why so many for only—what?—fifteen bandits, maybe?” someone called up from the assemblage.
Gonji rubbed his neck. “We’re going after victory, not valor. Battle plans aren’t formed on the basis of fairness to the enemy. You produce a couple of giants, and I’ll cut the raiding party in half!” There was much good-natured laughter.
When the raiders had been armed, mounted, and briefed, goodbyes and well-wishes were passed around. Many loved ones mingled with the mounted party to lend them encouragement and pledge their prayers. Brief group prayer was offered, including the one Gonji had composed for them.
Hildegarde came up beside Tora and slapped Gonji on the thigh. “You know Hildy would go along, Gonji-Gunnar,” she said in her thick Nordic accent, “but I don’t waste my time on these little skirmishes!” They shared a hearty laugh.
Wilf rode up alongside him and guided his horse through a prancing complete turn. Gonji had made him change steeds, declaring his favorite white roncin a too easily spotted target. The new horse was a jet-black gelding. Gonji nodded.
“Bona fortuna,” Flavio offered, standing before them with Garth. “And ride with God.”
Gonji bowed to him. Wilf and Garth exchanged strained farewells as the people were guided back to the tunnels for the cautious return to the surface.
“And the best to all of you,” Gonji called, “in your efforts at establishing peace with Klann. My wish is for you to pick up the pieces of your dream, Master Flavio.”
The samurai had Roric form them into a double rank. He walked Tora back and forth in front of them, looking them over carefully, seeing the tension that manifested itself in twitching and itches, sweating palms and faces, skittish mounts. Most of them wore armor and helmets of one sort or another. A wide assortment of weapons was on view. Gonji wore his cuirass, pauldrons, and vambraces, but no helm, only his hachi-maki.
“When the sluice gates open and we hear the water rush down the cliff, then we go. Mute everything that makes noise as best you can.” They were again using the opening of the waste-clearing sluice gates to cover their noise from the city-wall sentries high above their heads.
A Rorka knight named Anton, a middle-aged man with a balding pate, clopped over to Gonji, clad for battle in half-armor and his gray surcoat with the baron’s crest.
“I go along,” he said gruffly. “I have kin in Zarnesti—had, the last I heard.”
Gonji met his smoldering eyes, nodded. “You do so under my command, then, and you respond to my orders.” Anton shrugged sullenly but cast Gonji a salute and joined one end of the front rank.
The wash of water came to them from outside the tunnel entrance, the fetid waste gully splashing nearby with the day’s offal.
“Let’s go—quietly.”
They were off into the daylight, under the concealment of heavy foliage. Scouts were sent ahead to watch for patrols along the southern road. A small party of mercenaries approached from the south not long after they had begun their ride. The raiders split and broke into the forests on either side, waiting breathlessly until they had passed.
“The relieved outpost sentries, probably,” Gonji said when they had reassembled. “From Borgo Pass. They’ve just been granted a stay of execution.”
Some of the men gulped and wrestled with private fears to hear the words. A few were beginning to have second thoughts, if their lack of color was any indication. But they rode on.
They reached Borgo Pass in the early afternoon, stopping within sight of it to share a meal in silence. Even Berenyi’s light-hearted gesturing and mugging seemed forced, and evoked only the merest polite smiles. Gonji sat apart from them in the lotus position, arms folded, watching their anxiety without expression.
Tethering their horses in the swampy valley, they came near to the pass on foot. From their concealment on the eastern side they could make out the enormous rock formation that resembled a leaning crow. Three mercenaries in jacks—open
in the midday heat—lounged on a rise tucked between boulders, a cooking fire serving up heat waves in their midst. Their armament could only be guessed at over the distance. One bow could be seen protruding from a saddle, unstrung.
Gonji pondered a while, crouching at the rim of the tangle of brush. Gerhard scrambled up beside him.
“We could drop them with shafts from here, no?” the long-faced archer posited.
Gonji grunted. “No good. If they have pistols, they could squeeze off a warning shot that might be heard for leagues. Anyway I want to involve a novice, if possible.” He watched as one of the brigands removed his jack to slump down shirtless against a boulder façade with his meal. “Come on.”
They scurried back to the others. “Someone get me a horse—not Tora!” Gonji commanded. A man hustled off to comply. “I want one volunteer to work with me on eliminating those guards. Someone to—” Paolo Sauvini rose and stepped up to him. Gonji looked him up and down, then gazed past him, at the others. “—someone who can climb well and doesn’t fear a drop from that boulder. You’re going to land on top of one of them while I engage—”
“I’m your man, sensei,” the swaggering wagoner interrupted. His forte was the bow. He had never shown any special agility.
“I think not,” Gonji countered in a low voice. “Anyone?”
Paolo swallowed hard, not liking the taste of rejection. He rubbed his nose rapidly and shuffled off, apart from the others.
“Jiri?” Gonji questioned hopefully. A sheepish grin broke on the young athlete’s handsome face. He shook his head with a tiny fluttering motion that denoted embarrassed unwillingness.
“Not just yet,” he replied, gulping and looking down with a nervous rolling of his shoulders.