by Rypel, T. C.
“Oh, God, Michael—”
“Listen to me—”
“No, you listen!” she demanded. “We could have had a wonderful, meaningful life in Milano, or in Florence. We didn’t have to come back here. You spurned Count Faluso’s offer and came back here to these peasant mountains because that’s what your father wished, he and Flavio. I love you, Michael, so I came with you, as any dutiful wife would. But now you’re here, and it’s your duty to make the best of it. Your duty to them—and to me.” Her brow wrinkled, and she laid her hands on his chest imploringly. “Forget this mad desire for vengeance. Have you no shame before God? By all that we count holy, send him away!”
Michael looked deeply into her eyes. He gently clasped her hands and drew them down, his mouth working at words that wouldn’t come. Then he turned to face the empty street, saw the soldiers pacing the wall in the distance at the postern gate.
“There’s nothing I can do now,” he said, as if to disclaim any guilt in the matter. “He’s coming—Simon’s coming!” This last he said aloud into the street. There was a bustle in the nave as the mourners turned at the disturbance.
Lydia spun on her heel and stalked off, down the steps and through the twilight streets, toward their house. She rubbed her arms against the chill. It was no use talking to him when he was like this. But it was less his childish stubbornness that bothered her right now than the portentous alarm that clutched at her spine like an icy fiend.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The ancient stone skeleton of the city had shrugged off the last of the day’s heat, supplanted it with a taut skin of mountain chill. The night felt eager. Waiting, Gonji thought. Waiting as if it would spring. It seemed that this dreadful day was loath to end until it had spent its ugly fullness.
“Garth,” Gonji began, recalling something, “who is...Tralayn?”
They all peered at him quizzically, surprised that he should have heard the name so soon after his arrival. For all the respect and fear tendered her, Tralayn was frequently treated like the eccentric aunt who was seldom spoken of.
Garth settled into a chair and began carefully, “She’s a—a spiritual guide—”
“Our resident soothsayer,” Lorenz advanced.
“She’s a holy woman,” Strom said from the far end of the table, where he was flipping through an etched deck of cards Lorenz had brought back for him. “You shouldn’t make fun of her.”
“She’s a prophetess,” Garth said. “She’s gifted with visions that are said to be from God Himself. Our spiritual leader between visits by the monks from Holy Word Monastery. But surely you saw her at the square today—?”
Gonji looked puzzled. Then he remembered. “You mean the woman in the green robes? The one with the piercing eyes?”
“Ja.”
Gonji’s fingers drummed on the table top. Still another holy person....
“Why do you ask?” Lorenz plied Gonji.
“I’m seeking a man named Simon Sardonis,” Gonji replied insouciantly, stretching his arms behind his head. “I was told she might tell me where to find him. I bear a message for him.”
He cast glances around at each of them to gauge his words’ effect, then added gravely, “I suppose I’ll have to seek her out, presently.”
Only Garth seemed affected by the somber statement. “Your message,” he said, smiling shakily, “must be one of some importance.”
“I suppose it’s important enough,” Gonji said airily. And oh, yes, he reflected, it’s certainly important enough to you. Sooner or later I’ll find out what you know, friend smith. And if you’re frightened by it so, then it must be interesting, neh? What’s so special about this Sardonis that a dying priest’s last words should be a message of forbearance to him? Priests and monks and hermits and prophetesses—aieeee! These holy people are possessed of more mysteries than there are stars in the heavens! And how does a blacksmith gain privity to their magicks, eh? Ah, well, while the Deathwind continues to elude me at least I have another puzzle to unravel. Unusual for good kami to smile on me so.
Gonji found himself shrugging back a chill. He drew a deep whistling breath through his nostrils. Strom yawned and looked around the table, hoping someone else would suggest sleep. Wilf mumbled to himself incoherently.
Garth shuddered and rubbed his burly forearms, Gonji’s chill seemingly contagious. The smith plodded to the fireplace with a weary step and a muttered apology. As he brought the failing hearth to blazing, Gonji slid from his chair and cleared a space in the center of the room.
“Mind?” he asked. The sons looked from one to the other quizzically and shrugged. Gonji grinned. “Must keep this fine repast from going straight to fat.”
Then he was bending and twisting in a light round of stretching. Tiny sweat beads glistened on his brow as he felt the lingering ache of the illness protesting in his bones.
Wilf, weaving slightly, studied him with watery eyes.
Strom gazed at him hollowly for a space, then became self-conscious and rose with a clatter. “Well, I’m for bed,” he announced. But Garth cast him a meaningful glance, and the youngest son set to clearing the dinner table at a lazy pace.
“You’ll all pardon me,” Lorenz said, “if I pass on the exercise.” With a curt smile to Gonji and a nod, the courtly son moved to a basin in the corner and began to wash.
“Herr Gundersen,” Gonji said, head bent down to his right knee, “what will your Flavio do about these usurpers, this...Klann the Invincible and his circus of dregs?”
“What can he do?” Garth replied with a gesture of helplessness. “We had peace, protection, a good system under the kindly Baron Rorka. He was a fine administrator, a good soldier in his time. Now that time seems to have passed. A new power is in control. Their ways may take some getting used to, but....” Garth’s words stumbled off toward the compartment wherein lay his true feelings.
“I wonder,” Gonji thought aloud, working his sore shoulder, “how so great a castle was breached so easily. Surely the Castle Lenska I’ve heard about has massive defensive outworks—”
“Some say the mightiest on the whole continent!” Wilf declared, lurching toward him and waving an arm awkwardly.
“—shot through with arrow loops, and mangonels, or even mortars—”
“Ja! I’ve seen them! Four of them, great-mouthed, tall, thick as pines.”
“—with a full garrison of knights, perhaps armed with pistols and muskets—”
Garth spoke up: “Nein, not a full complement of troops. Maybe two hundred at most. And few guns. Powder and shot are rare and costly.”
“Hey,” Strom piped in, “Klann’s army is big. There were lots of soldiers here—true, Papa?” He clattered an armload of pewter and cutlery into an oaken barrel. No one paid him any heed.
Shaking his head to chase his reverie, Gonji palmed aside Garth’s corrections. “Ah, no matter. It could’ve been done only two ways: treachery or sorcery...or both.” His eyes seemed to mist over. “Sorcery...Mord....”
This last was scarcely more than a breath, but Garth had heard him. The smith eyed him askance.
“You know of Mord?”
Fool, Gonji thought in sudden alarm. That was very stupid. No one here had yet mentioned the sorcerer; indeed, he hadn’t seen the magician during his glimpse of the uprising at the square and hadn’t even considered that he might have come to Vedun, especially inasmuch as Klann himself hadn’t. He mentally cursed the slip. It wouldn’t do to link himself with Klann’s army in these people’s minds. He had a creeping feeling that he was on the verge of alienating the Gundersens’ tenuous acceptance of him. But the mention of Mord intrigued him. He fought back the tautness working into his facial muscles.
“His reputation precedes him,” Gonji covered. “And the soldiers at the inn—they....”
“Ah, of course, they spoke of him. All the people must be whispering about him by now.” And for the benefit of all, Garth recounted the sorcerer’s dramatic appearance, his threateni
ng words, and the icy conflict between Mord and Tralayn. So discreetly did he choose his words, so adroitly did he structure his retelling of the episode, that only by the merest trembling of his lips did Garth mark the juncture at which he omitted the business of the mysterious key.
“Mmmm.” The samurai waxed pensive at the conclusion of Garth’s story. “Not good. Not good for you people at all. Tell me—does your Baron Rorka have any allies who might come to his aid? Has he Hapsburg ties?”
A look passed between Garth and Lorenz.
“His family is Magyar,” Strom observed tentatively. Then, more sure of himself, moving closer to the group: “Ja, that’s right—Magyars! They’ll come and help us. True, Lorenz? Am I right?”
“Not precisely, little brother,” Lorenz replied, his tone patronizing. Then, to Gonji: “That’s...just the sort of information Klann would be interested in, nicht wahr? Isn’t it?”
Gonji laughed. “Ja. And nein, once again, I’m not a spy from Klann’s camp. And let’s leave it at that, neh? Besides,” he continued, a bit irked, “there’d be more subtle means of obtaining that kind of intelligence, don’t you think?”
Lorenz raised a finger and an eyebrow in unison in a gesture of concession.
They sipped their wine. A stiff mountain breeze rolled through the city from the west, whistling around cornices, flapping awnings, overturning loose shingles here and there that exploded on the streets below.
“Well, friends, I’ll offer you this,” Gonji said, leaning forward, the Sagami propped against his knee. “It isn’t going to work. Living side by side with this invading army. Take my word for it. I’ve seen it happen—hell, I’ve been in the middle of it—many times before. Some self-styled bandit chieftain buys a horde of renegades and proclaims himself a king. Then he preys on soft towns like this, makes the people dance to his piping, and lives high off their sweat and blood.”
Garth had been shaking his head all the while. He spread his meaty hands on the table. “I’ve heard something of this Klann. I’ve heard he was once a noble king, fair to his charges. Maybe it won’t be difficult to live under his rule once the people have...adjusted.”
“And I’ve heard things about him, too. None of them good,” Gonji said. “Some say there is no Klann.”
“For God’s sake, Papa,” Wilf cried, “he killed some of our neighbors, kidnapped others. Who knows what’s happening to the prisoners at the castle?”
“Listen to me,” Gonji cut in, low and conspiratorial. “Do you know who delivered the killing blow to the boy, Mark? It was Ben-Draba—Klann’s field commander! Now what does that imply about his choice of comrades?”
“And what do you propose we should do, friend samurai?” Garth queried, pain and confusion seasoning his voice in equal measure.
“I know what I’d do.”
“And that is?”
“Fight.”
“I’ll toast to that,” Wilf bellowed. “Who’ll join me?” Only Gonji did, but more to amuse Wilf than to exacerbate his father’s evident torment.
“We’re primarily a Christian community,” Lorenz said calmly. “We believe any authority is ordained of God. Do you come to us spreading insurrection as you would to some heathen land?”
Gonji felt his cheeks redden. Before he formed his answer, Wilf jumped in, the subject sobering him rapidly.
“God doesn’t tell us to submit to evil rule, or to those who won’t let us worship our way. Isn’t that one reason Flavio founded Vedun? You said they knocked down the cross at the square, Papa. What did the prophetess say about that?”
“Tralayn did threaten them against incidents like that,” Garth replied reluctantly.
“And did our fire-breathing soothsayer also advocate suicidal rebellion?” Lorenz asked wryly.
“We’re not fighting men. We’re peaceful people,” Strom added, leaning against the window.
“And have you no former fighting men in a city this size?” Gonji countered. “How many people live in Vedun?”
They looked one to the other, and Garth finally estimated, “Perhaps...two or three thousand.”
“And of those few thousands,” Gonji said, “a third to a half are men, eh? If such a force could be disciplined to unified action—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Lorenz interrupted. “They’d be fighting already trained and seasoned troops, probably just back from some battlefield. Those my father described sound formidable. Rorka’s whole castle force was defeated in a single night.”
“Ahh,” Gonji growled, “there’s more to that than what you suppose, I’ll wager.”
“And if they’re mercenaries,” Wilf added, “wouldn’t they lack organization? You’ve told me that many times, Papa.”
“Exactly, Wilf,” Gonji said. “That’s my point. They look formidable, all right—they have to. Intimidation is their stock in trade. They seldom mesh well as a unit in battle. They’re used to individual conflict, and even then they’re wild flailers, for the most part. I could train any one of you to best any of their number in single combat—” Gonji’s voice had risen in pitch, and as he paused he lowered it dramatically. “—and if I had one samurai for every five of Klann’s rogues, I could take that castle back from them.”
The atmosphere in the room grew heavy. All eyes were on Gonji, and no one spoke for fear of the glint of black flame that lit the depths of his eyes like beacons of hell on a molten sea.
After a long pause Garth intoned quietly, “There are many regulars.”
Gonji sighed and leaned back in his chair. One hand clutched his wine cup, the other rocked the killing sword gently between his knees. The three sons began to argue the city’s chances in an open rebellion against Klann, Garth steering clear except to warn them now and then to lower their voices. Most of what they said was lost to Gonji. He reflected on what he had been urging them to do. Silly. Why get them pondering a course that’s obviously beyond them? Hell, it wasn’t even clear yet what sort of force Klann commanded, who or whatever Klann was. Lorenz was likely right; it probably would be suicidal for them to try anything. This damned fool Rorka had fixed them, all right, with his lousy lack of vigilance. And who cared? The smith was a nice fellow, but his sons were certainly no bargain, and he’d met no one else in Vedun that seemed worth worrying about, save for the children. But it was this damned oppression—that was it. His revulsion of oppression had already gotten him into more trouble than it was worth.
But what man can change what he is, neh? Sheep. That’s what these people are. They’ve got trouble, oh, very so. Deep trouble. If there’s anything these dung-eating mercenaries know how to do, it’s grind the heel.
For the first time Gonji noticed the crucifix above the door. That ugly scene was reprised: the monks in the valley.... For an instant his mind’s eye framed the Gundersens, each in turn, in the attitude of the crucified Christ....
“Boris!”
Strom bounded from the window to greet a short dark man, roughly in his mid-twenties, who strode up to the open door. From between his unruly thatch of greasy hair and the large birthmark on his cheek, opaque black eyes swept the room. He anxiously greeted the family, clutching his cap in both hands. His ferret-like features twisted when he spotted the samurai.
“Welcome, Boris,” Garth called warmly, “and what brings you here so late?” But before the man could respond, Garth added with embarrassment, “Oh, forgive me—Gonji, this is Boris Kamarovsky, one of our wood craftsmen. Boris—Gonji Sabatake, a traveler from—”
“Pan Gundersen,” Boris appealed in a Slavic tongue, the samurai freezing in his bow, “this is an urgent matter. May I speak to you outside?”
“Of course,” Garth said with concern.
The smith stepped outside and closed the door, reentering a few minutes later to reach for his long cloak. “Come, Lorenz, we have business. Gonji, please excuse us. It seems a smith’s work is never done.”
“Quite all right. I should be leaving anyway.” Gonji rose from the tab
le, but Garth halted him.
“No, no, finish your wine,” Garth directed. “And where would you stay tonight? The inn probably wouldn’t be pleasant. It’s likely filled with drunken soldiers. Why not stay here?”
“You’re too kind, and I’m afraid I’ve already imposed on your hospitality.”
“But I insist! Please stay. There’s an extra cot in Strom’s room, and it’s been too long since we’ve had a guest.”
Gonji caught the shadow of gloom that darkened Strom’s face and was about to decline. But Wilf plunged in thickly, “Strom can move in with Lorenz for the night. Then we can talk soldiering, eh, Gonji?” He sloshed noisily from his now refilled goblet.
Gonji considered it a moment. “That arrangement sounds fine with me, Wilf,” he said with a smile and a bow. If, he thought in private amusement, you don’t heave all over me.
Garth chuckled and made for the door. “It’s done then.”
“Papa,” Wilf called, “is it a council meeting?”
Lorenz shot him a piercing glance. Garth looked to Wilf, then to Gonji, and said with a shrug, “I suppose there’s no harm in telling. Ja, it’s a council meeting.”
“Let me come along—and bring Gonji. I’d like to know what the others have to say about this Klann.”
“You know better,” came Lorenz’s sharp censure.
“Nein, my son, this is a closed session.”
Wilf began to grumble, and Gonji tried to still his tiresome protestations. But then something happened.
No one who experienced it ever forgot it, yet none ever discussed that living-death stillness that, for one ghastly moment, sucked the very life from Vedun. It was as if they all sensed that to speak of it would cause it to return. Perhaps forever.
Without warning there came an almost palpable blanketing, a smothering of all sound, natural and man-made. Like a noiseless depressurization, a sound-sapping vacuum. As if the city had come alive to suck the life-breath of every creature therein and hold that breath for an indeterminate space of eye-popping horror.
There was not a sound in Vedun. And every living thing felt the moment of death at hand....