by Rypel, T. C.
Gonji laughed breathily. He wanted to be angry but couldn’t. “Well, you asked about my past, you mangy dog.”
Angelo’s ears quivered as a rumble of thunder cannonaded the valley. The village had fallen quiet, most of the soldiers probably having succumbed to slumber. The steady hiss of the rain now sounded deceptively peaceful.
“About Klann,” Gonji said, unable to dismiss the questions that harried sleep. “Do you think he still lives?”
Jocko became troubled. “Sí, amigo, I believe he lives.”
“And the stories about him?”
“That...I don’t like to think about.”
Gonji pondered this a moment, but before he could comment, Jocko continued:
“One thing’s sure, though; from what I been overhearin’ it don’t sound good fer that city up there.” He nodded toward the mountains, a world-weary melancholia creeping into his voice. “People wanna pretend all these horrors don’t exist, ain’t it? They tell me all the scholars and writers o’ the books in the big cities, well, they jot down only the things men wanna think about. They don’t write about the things that won’t let ya sleep with both eyes closed. All the things I seen—men torn apart so’s ya wouldn’t know they was men—all just rubbish. All our lives—just offal, eh?”
“Nobody wants to remember bad things,” Gonji agreed in a hoarse whisper. “Someday, maybe in the next generation, all the horrors men live with today will be...only legends. Dimly remembered. Whispered about around campfires. That’s the way it’s always been. New fears, new terrors to replace yesterday’s.” A raspy sigh. “Let me get some sleep, you old goat.”
“Good idea. Navárez’ll be comin’ around before ya know it, rousin’ everybody fer that chant business. I’ll try to get you out of it—ya don’t sound too good to me.”
“Gracias.”
Jocko took the stool into the shop and set it against a far window from which he could watch the soggy main street. He sat resting his head in one hand at the sill.
“Pilgrim?”
“Hai?”
A long pause, then: “Hope ya find yer kingdom, son.”
Gonji blinked, smiled wanly. He could see the frazzled silhouette of the old duffer’s head at the window. He lipped a silent domo arigato and pulled the blankets close over his trembling, raging body. He coughed violently once, and before fitful sleep overcame him, he watched for a long time through half-closed eyes Jocko’s fretful head turns. From Gonji, to the street, and back again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was the mule’s braying that saved Gonji’s life.
As soon as he had fallen into troubled sleep, a kaleidoscope of nightmare tableaux had opened to his mind’s eye. Charging horses, big as warships, with the heads of snarling men and swords in their teeth, bore down on him as he struggled to escape through a mucky dreamscape. Falling, ever falling, yet still moving nearer the enemy. Dark shapes hovered near, caressed him nauseatingly. The swords turned into serpents that spat hissing missiles. The nearest face, ugly and angular, spread wide starting at the mouth, and a huge red tongue fluttered toward him as the gaping rictus emitted an ear-splitting bawl that severed the cord of sleep.
And he found himself fighting for his life.
The first Mongol flung himself down hard on Gonji, clutching his throat with one hand, a glinting dagger descending in the other. Gonji choked and in his bleary half-wakefulness reacted just quickly enough to deflect the first thrust with a handful of blanket.
His legs kicked, but the Mongol’s weight pinned him and his feet became entangled in the blanket. Still disoriented, gasping for breath, Gonji lashed out madly with his fists. But the blade found an opening as the savage Chinese drooled into his face with the exertion.
The knife bit into Gonji’s shoulder a half-inch, and he roared with shock and pain and rage. He leaped convulsively, tossing the Mongol in a heap at the rim of the fire.
Lurching to his feet, the Mongol tipped half into the blaze, shrieking as his hand dipped in and then out of the flame like a shot from a mangonel.
Gonji cast about for his weapons as the second Mongol charged him from the alley.
Angelo continued trumpeting, finally rousing Jocko, who had drifted to sleep at the sill. The handler rushed out in time to see Gonji fling a chunk of kindling at the charging Mongol. It stopped him in his tracks as he flinched, the log thunking hard into his side.
Then the first Mongol was at Gonji’s back, knife plunging. Gonji took a quick step forward, as if to run, glancing over his shoulder. But his knee snapped up and a leg shot back and blasted the knife-wielder cleanly off his feet.
Jocko bellowed a warning, and a slim Chinese blade arced through space where an instant earlier Gonji’s head had bobbed.
But now he had the Sagami.
The katana sang in the mist and clanged the Mongol’s sword nearly out of his hand. Gonji leaped forward, feinted once, twice. The Mongol staggered back, lost composure, and opened wide his middle guard. The Sagami whizzed downward like a scythe in the two-handed grip. The Mongol’s torso split open diagonally in a gaping red cascade.
The other Mongol rose groggily, holding his aching abdomen. He looked up, and the pain in his face became helpless alarm. He saw Gonji’s eyes. And he knew the moment of death.
An instant later the Mandarin-mustached head bounced in the muddy lane.
Shouts from the street. The slapping of running feet. Gonji scooped up the seppuku sword and ran, scabbarding the Sagami and shoving both swords into his sash as he made for the stables.
“Move, pilgrim—yer on yer own!”
Bandits ran and yelped in confusion through the village, a few carrying hissing torches. Whining issued from huts as the villagers’ terror came anew. Gonji pushed through the startled horses, searching for Tora, cursing. He knew he couldn’t make it. Only the motions to go through now. The survival instinct.
Two men pushed in the street-side doors just as he found Tora—fully saddled! The gods were determined to prolong the spectacle.
He rolled astride the snorting horse and spurred for the door. The other animals jostled and parted before the charge, and Gonji hurled a hoarse war cry at the two mercenaries. Both dove sideways, avoiding the furious charge and whirling blade.
Then Gonji was barreling through the treacherous quagmire of the street, bearing down on a small huddle of men blocking the egress to the main road.
Someone he passed threw a torch. Tora whinnied and swerved to avoid it, skidded in the mud, nearly toppling them. Gonji righted the steed, saw a pistol leveling at him from the pack ahead.
“Cholera!” he shouted, reining in and clinging low, wheeling the horse back the way they had come. The fields. Escape across the fields. The shot cracked behind them, the ball whizzing by.
But the two men from the stable had mounted bareback and were blocking the street. One waved a torch; the other—it might have been a pistol. Gonji couldn’t be sure. Two footmen appeared at their side, brandishing swords, and Gonji made an abrupt decision. A bad one.
He swung Tora between the huts and down an alley, by this time reeling in the saddle from the ague, the bleeding shoulder wound, the thunder in his head. As soon as he caught sight of the wall in the darkness ahead, he knew he had made a mistake. On this side of the village the perimeter wall was in better repair, built higher. Impossible for Tora to leap.
They turned left into the back lane, again heading toward the fields, but the wall was complete all the way to the southeast corner, and he knew he must head back to the main street. They bolted past the tall grain bins and charged, living fire flaring the faces of both man and horse.
Shouts and footfalls, the scrape of metal lay all about them.
They emerged, Gonji steeling against the certainty of a searing pistol ball. He saw an arch that led to the fields on his right. Almost there! They were nearly to the wall before Gonji saw the ropes strung tight across the arch. He pulled hard on the reins, and Tora shrilled and reared, thro
wing Gonji over and nearly landing on him. The horse righted itself, and the samurai pushed up out of the mud and drew his swords.
For a moment his vision was a blur of harsh light and color, a field of crackling white flecks. Then his eyes focused.
He was encircled by heaving bodies and trembling sword arms. Cocked pistols drew a bead. No one spoke. Some cast about with confused glances, uncertain what was going on. Dull moonlight penetrated the cloud cover and highlighted ghostly faces that held Gonji with bulging eyes and gasping mouths. The rain had dwindled to a seething mist.
Gonji breathed hard, pivoted with the deadly, swaying motion of a coiled viper, stopped when he saw Navárez. The horse-faced sneer of Esteban floated above the captain’s shoulder. Together they looked like swarthy Siamese twins. Gonji’s eyes narrowed, and he thought he saw Navárez flinch as the Sagami fixed on his throat.
Then from behind them Riemann bounded up, yelling incoherently. He pushed past Navárez, aiming his wheel lock at Gonji.
“He killed them!” the German cried on a tremulous breath. “Ling and Hu San, both dead. He killed them. He cut Ling’s head off! You bloody bastard!”
Gonji stiffened as the raging adventurer squeezed the trigger. Navárez roared at him to hold his fire.
Too late.
Every fiber in Gonji’s body tensed. But the pistol clacked, spluttered, misfired.
The entire party stared blankly, then sucked in a collective breath as Gonji howled and charged the bewildered Riemann. The men flanking him fell back, cowed by the ferocity of Gonji’s attack. Riemann stumbled, clawing for his rapier, terror on his face.
“Hold it!”
Like a lumpy toad, Jocko had sprung between the two men and was almost downed by Gonji’s whirling blade. The blow was checked scant inches from the wizened head. Gonji glared at him, uncertain, sprang back a pace and eyed the moist hands that clutched sword hilts, the two or three pistols that suddenly offered their holders less comfort.
Navárez found his voice. “What’s this all about? What do you think to do here, bárbaro, murder us all in our sleep?” He pointed his cutlass at Gonji. “Who are you working for?”
“He killed ’em all right, Franco,” Jocko bellowed. “I seen it all. They jumped ‘im first, and he slashed ’em to bits, that’s true. But it ain’t that you oughta be worryin’ about.”
Navárez inclined a curious ear toward Jocko but kept his eyes on the samurai. Gonji glowered at the old fool, his thoughts jumbled. Now, what the hell—? The others began whispering and shuffling nervously, weapons in itching fists. Jocko lumbered up to Gonji.
Their eyes met hotly.
“Ya thought ya could fool an old dog, eh?” Jocko snarled. “Somebody tried to hang you only they didn’t quite make it, si? Who the hell you kiddin’, sonny? Look here.” He reached toward Gonji’s throat with Kingslayer, but Gonji batted it away sharply with his blade, felt a twinge of pain in the stabbed shoulder.
What’s this old fool doing?
A rippling murmur coursed through the bandits as they watched. Rain and sweat glistened on every face. Each man hoped he wouldn’t be the one to face that deadly sword when the command came.
Jocko snorted with disgust. “Well, I don’t need to show ya. I seen it myself and that’s enough. He’s got big purple marks all over his neck! Now, how many men you know that’ve walked away from a hangin’? He wasn’t hanged. And ya all know where we seen marks like that before, too. Prob’ly got ’em all over his body, aintcha, pilgrim? Says he’s been up north.”
He said the word as if it should have been a revelation, and a few men gulped tellingly, glanced from one to the other. Gonji could only stare, baffled, sword at the ready. His sweat made the wound burn as if from the touch of a brand. He fleetingly wondered how much blood he had lost.
Jocko walked slowly, talking as he went, using the cutlass to punctuate his words.
“Lookit the way he shakes there. His head’s hot as a spent cannon barrel. Been complainin’ about this pain in his belly, says it makes him act strange.”
A hush. Jocko turned to Navárez.
“Know what I think, Franco? That bugger’s got the plague!”
Several men lowered their weapons and grumbled fearfully. Gonji felt a surge of bile rise at the old man’s words. Then his muddled thoughts ordered themselves. This might be his out, if he played his cards right.
Then, as if the notion had been a psychic signal, Jocko said to Navárez: “I don’t know about you—and yer the boss, Franco—but I sure wouldn’t blood my sword on his shit-festered carcass! I ain’t buryin’ no plague-ridden scum! Let’s run ‘im outta here. Him and that worm-eaten nag o’ his. Throw ’em out!”
The captain regarded Gonji speculatively, and a slow-burning anger flickered the corners of his eyes.
“You let me drink from your water skin!” He advanced a threatening pace. Gonji stood motionless, held a breath.
“No, no, he prob’ly didn’t know,” Jocko cut in. “That damn monkey-man don’t know what’s got him. Can’t blame him fer stupidity, eh?” He cackled icily, then loped over to Tora and grabbed his reins, walked the horse to the circle. “Here, get him outta here. Let the vultures pick ‘im over someplace else. I ain’t gonna bury no fouled corpse.” A sadness stooped the old man’s shoulders, and his voice grew shallow. “Got enough buryin’ to do around here anyway....”
No one moved or spoke. Gonji watched as indecision swept Navárez’ gaze groundward. Then, very cautiously, he eased himself up onto the saddle. Jocko threw him the reins with an arrogant snap, and Gonji found himself suppressing a smile. For it had all become clear to him in that very instant when he caught the merry little twinkle that flashed under Jocko’s brows. The old man had set it up, acted it all out—who else would’ve saddled Tora in readiness?
Gonji shuddered and let out a labored breath. Bad to lose control like that, to let them see the toll his pains were taking. So he glanced about the company and, seeing no proffered threat, wheeled Tora toward the arch and over the now limp ropes that had barred their way moments before.
“Bárbaro!”
Gonji halted and turned slowly. He met Navárez’ gaze with weary indulgence. The captain strode forward, and the others bunched in behind him.
Navárez held out a rain-slicked palm. “You have my gold.”
Gonji’s hand snapped reflexively to the kimono pocket. The sack of doubloons chinked against his ribs. Without taking his eyes off the hostile party, he extracted the bag, worked the drawstrings open. He nestled the open bag at his crotch and removed two coins—his roughly calculated payment for work to date. He dropped these back into his pocket and lifted the bag by the strings, noticing the blood spots that had seeped through the pocket and dotted the purse.
The sack splashed in the mud at Navárez’ feet.
The captain gritted his teeth, and Esteban edged up beside him and looked as if he would say something. He thought better of it when no one else moved up with him. Navárez pointed, and Esteban reached down for the sack.
“Hey!”
Esteban froze. All heads turned as Jocko tramped up and grabbed the toady Esteban’s arm.
“Ya wanna pick that up after he’s been layin’ on it fer three days?” Jocko’s face twisted with disgust, the sort of look that spreads contagiously from one onlooker to the next. Esteban backed a pace.
Gonji caught the snicker in his craw before it could break on his lips. He forced a hateful scowl and fixed it on the old man.
“Come, muchachos,” Navárez said at length. “We have business.” Then, groping for something with which to save face: “Go crawl away and die someplace else, eh? Our paths cross again, bárbaro, we hang you with your own swords stuck up your rump, entender?”
Gonji arched an eyebrow contemptuously and flashed a smirk as he turned Tora toward the drainage ditches carved along the grain fields. They cantered away from the village. The last image of the place: a fleeting glimpse of the burly peasant Gonji had
backed off earlier, as the man peered from the shutters at the rear of his hut.
Wearily he took stock of his pains, which were considerable. The fever raged anew. His shoulder burned from the knife wound, and he could feel the sticky wetness of blood clear down to his waist.
He slowed Tora and worked open the kimono, whose thick fabric had absorbed only a thin line of blood that ran along the inside left fold. His gray tunic, however, shone luridly in the full moon’s dim light. He daubed at the wound with a cloth, grateful that it was shallow and had left him use of the left arm.
* * * *
Jocko clucked to himself softly as he watched the departing figure become enveloped by misty rain and slow-rolling gray fog. He peered over his shoulder at the shambling company, clenching his fists and hunching his shoulders jubilantly at the success of the fine ploy. With a curt nod toward Gonji, he bent and scooped up the sack of doubloons, stuffing it inside his shirt.
* * * *
A hollow in the lee of a cliff provided Gonji shelter against the chill and rain. He sat with his back against the cold stone and shivered under his blanket. Every muscle complained; every swallow burned his throat. He had neither flint nor tinder with which to strike a fire. He counted his aches, sneezed with gale force, eyes and nose watering freely. His head pounded relentlessly. For the first time he began to truly believe that he might die in this land, just as the Weeping Sisters had said. Hadn’t they mentioned having...brothers? Would a horde of ravening vampires feast on him this night?
If so, they would have to feast on a corpse. He fingered the Sagami, which lay horizontally beneath his drawn-up knees. Two swords were fixed in a cruciform stuck in the ground before him. The wind gradually changed direction as he sat, whipping around the cliff to buffet him.
He had emerged from the mountain cleft by which Jocko had arrived in the valley and, for no particular reason, in a dreamlike, near unconscious state, doubled back along the road they had traveled yesterday. From this vantage he could make out the sloping pine tops rippling below.