by Rypel, T. C.
“So what is to be done,” Roric concluded for all, “we must do ourselves, then.”
“Yes,” Rorka agreed.
“We can win?” came a voice from the rear in Italian.
Rorka sat down hard, placed his hands on his knees, and told them what they needed to hear.
“Yes...if all do their part...we can do what we need to do.” But deep inside him, from that secret place where his soul repaired when it wished no truck with affairs of leadership, came the fervent prayer that it should never come to pass.
“We must win,” Michael said bitterly.
“If the worst shall happen,” Flavio added firmly.
“Amen,” Milorad appended.
“But it will happen,” Tralayn said, “and we will prevail.”
All at once Ignace Obradek stood up and cackled in toothless glee, whooping and swinging his fists.
“It’s gonna be just like the old days, ain’t it, Zoltan?” the blind man shouted in the Polish of his youth. “Just like the days when old Vlad the Impaler used to skewer ’em in the streets! No invader had a chance then, nyeh? And remember, Zoltan, how we used to run ’em down in the mountains? Remember the red dragon we cornered in the valley and tilted at for five days and nights? Would’ve taken two of my wagons just to haul him back, it would!”
Most of the listeners had taken to examining their shoes and scratching sudden itches. Like most men, the men of Vedun were uncomfortable with infirmity and senility. Ignace had been addressing Rorka as “Zoltan”—Rorka’s father, a former Baron, under whom Ignace had many years ago been a cavalry lancer.
Rorka smiled benignly. “Yes, my loyal friend, those were great days,” he said sympathetically, thinking of the dragon tale he had heard many times at his father’s knee.
Paolo Sauvini eased his sightless master back into his seat. Paolo affected nonchalance, but he could feel the sneers. He respected the old man’s knowledge and had learned to like him, but Ignace’s senility caused him no end of discomfiture. He bore the insults of the cruel sullenly and with little response. Like Wilfred Gundersen, he knew that someday he’d be engaged in something more glorious than his present trade. He lacked only the chance.
“It is done, then,” Tralayn said. “We are committed. Mind you to keep this business in confidence. Speak of it in secret to those you can trust. There are harlots and drunkards with wagging tongues—you know those of whom I speak. And I hardly need caution you against strangers. When it is time to raise the militia, you’ll receive the word. Go to your homes. Pray for strength, for courage. Remember that Mord, the Ancient One, is our greatest enemy here. He would see this city razed for all time, for he is the servant of the Fallen One. Do not fear him. Do not fear his monsters or his mask that conceals the Mark of the Beast. Remember that God has promised His Deliverer, one who will make the enemy pale at his mention.”
There was shuffling and the rolling murmur of voices in several languages as the gathering rose to leave.
“Please,” Flavio said, “make yourselves comfortable in my home until it’s safe to travel the streets. Then you’d best leave by twos and threes in case you are stopped and questioned.”
As the crowd moved slowly up the stairs and through the concealed doorway to the catacomb, a knot of well-wishers ushered the baron into an alcove to chat. Tralayn seized the opportunity to speak with Michael and Flavio in private.
“I’ll be off with the baron in a moment,” Tralayn said to Michael conspiratorially. “Quickly now—you had to break the chains?”
Michael breathed the sigh of the weary. “Our smith does good work.”
“We can only hope Mord’s foul magicks can learn nothing from the key.”
“Shall I have Garth repair them?” Michael asked, fastening his frock coat.
“No, leave them broken.”
“What? But the next—”
“Yes,” Tralayn cut in. “He does not bend easily to God’s will.”
Flavio looked pained. “Is it wise to meddle so?”
Tralayn closed her eyes, considered. “I’m not sure, dear friend, but we will need him.”
“I pray we do not.”
“I told him about Mark,” Michael said with morbid satisfaction.
Flavio spoke in a sharp whisper, “No good can come of a vengeful spirit, Michael.”
“Shouldn’t they know about him?” Michael asked with a nod toward the others.
“Slowly, Michael,” Tralayn cautioned. “Flavio is right. You’re too eager for the wrong kind of action.”
“Not even the baron?”
“We swore an oath,” Flavio enjoined. “It’s for him to decide.”
Garth returned down the stairs without Lorenz and came to them, a wariness in his expression.
“I have only a moment,” the smith said. “Lorenz is too clever to outwit for long. His questions are snaring. But I must speak to you about the stranger in my home.”
“The oriental,” Tralayn observed.
“The one who brought in Mark’s body,” Michael added.
“Yes. He’s inquiring after Simon Sardonis.”
They were all taken aback. “Indeed?” Tralayn said.
“He says he has a message for him.”
“From whom?”
“He won’t say. But he toys with the knowledge and makes me very edgy. What shall I do about him?”
“We can’t trust him,” Michael said flatly.
“No,” Tralayn agreed, “but he bears watching. Try to find out what he really knows, but have a care, Garth.”
The brawny smith nodded just as the shouts exploded in the house above. They all froze an instant, and then Flavio led the surge toward the stairs. When he was halfway up, Milorad appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and hands a-flutter.
“There’s—there’s shooting outside!”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Mord was bent over the puzzling key found on the boy in the forest when the first arrow struck the wyvern.
The sorcerer hissed at the sudden sharp pain, his right arm lashing out unbidden, propelled by the invisible force. He could feel his familiar’s distress across the distance. He went straightaway to the raised stone slab at the center of the chamber and lay supine on it. By the time the second shaft had struck the flying beast’s belly, causing the sorcerer’s body to react with the impact, Mord’s astral presence was well on its way.
He entered the creature as it swung low over the dark spires and rooftops of Vedun, searching for its tormentor. The wyvern’s tiny subservient brain released control to its master. Mord’s mind became that of the wyvern; his eyes became its eyes. He felt the familiar giddiness of the flight sensation first, but then the agony of the arrow wound took hold. He blared a mighty shriek of challenge; he couldn’t believe that anyone here had dared attack the wyvern.
The creature’s senses had limited range, with one exception: though it was color blind, its sight was remarkable.
He called upon the wyvern’s dull memory. The attacker was a man in overcast-toned garb, his head swathed in nightshade wrappings, his weapons lashed to his back.
There was one sure way to track him down if he remained in the city streets. It would cost Mord dearly in mana, in metaphysical power, until the next invocation. He debated the cost, and his arrogant rage cast the deciding vote.
The wyvern began to fade, to become transparent. Its substance spread wide on the wings of the wind, extended to nearly half the width of the city. A watcher would have perceived it as a passing wraith, nothing more. To Mord’s vantage the city became filmy layers of shadow upon shadow, a land of gray smoke with vague contours. But in this manner the city was combed quickly and efficiently, and Mord’s eyes were the eyes of the wind.
There!—below—a man in dingy tunic and breeches with swords at his back. He stood at the wall of a sewage culvert, throwing something in. Was this the one? His face was not masked. And there was no bow among his weapons. Still, he seemed familiar....
&n
bsp; Soundlessly Mord regathered the creature’s substance on a rooftop behind the warrior, clung there and watched. The man turned.
It was a slant-eyed barbarian, an oriental. Now a still deeper memory welled up—monks burning—the monastery orchard—What was this barbarian’s connection?
The man’s face registered fear, the same fear Mord had seen so often before. His mind smiled in lazy amusement. But then: something else—defiance. The warrior drew his swords and struck a defensive posture, moving laterally along the culvert wall.
The wyvern’s wings unfurled, and Mord caused it to shriek a strident war cry. The oriental seemed unmoved. His eyes flared with passion born of courage or stupidity. Perhaps both.
Mord lifted the creature into the air, hovered, the burning juices roiling in its throat glands, its bowels tensed to emit their excrement at his command....
But wait.... Yes. Yes, he would destroy this one in a most horrible fashion. But all in good time. First he might be useful. If this was indeed the bold one who attacked the wyvern, he might be just the sort of rebellious spirit that would help bring this city to self-destruction. And what was a bit of pain and indignity suffered in the accomplishment of the Dark Lord’s purpose: to see this stronghold of the once omnipotent God bathed in blood and baked by unholy fire?
As long as their faith can be shaken by the sight of a giant, I shall have the upper hand of them.
With a parting scream Mord lofted the wyvern into the heights at a dizzying speed and returned with it to the castle.
* * * *
Sweating profusely, at last allowing the trembling that had coiled up in his gut to vent itself in a whooshing exhale, Gonji watched the monster soar off into the north. His heart thudded in his ears, and his breath came in relieved hitches. He had been prepared to die—it was part of his earliest training—but...not like that. Had he not been able to make it into the culvert in time, the seppuku blade would have been plunged into his belly.
How had it managed to take him unawares like that? And why had it withheld its lethal sputum and filth? Had it been called away at the last instant to some other foul duty? And what had been different about it?
The eyes. That was it. Earlier they had been red, glowing with an inner fire. This time they were a glimmering obsidian, like black diamond. And their darting and scanning—indeed, the whole movement of the beast’s head—had had an intelligent cast. The eyes had been human.
Gonji heard horses cantering within a block of his position. He had to get to safety. The stables were not far now. He spat into the foul-smelling culvert, glad that he hadn’t become part of its corruption, and dashed off. He must live to fight another day, to deal again with the creature that so filled him with shameful fear.
* * * *
Gonji squatted in the hayloft of Garth’s barn, rubbing his body against the entrenched chill. Stiffness had followed close on the heels of inactivity. Pungent aromas of manure and damp rot puckered his features. Horses nickered in the stalls below. He could make out Tora’s head in one of the farther stalls, and the good steed’s presence was some small comfort.
He had had time to think, and the banshee of guilt had set to wailing over his shoulder. It had not been a good foray, to say the least. He had accomplished nothing and had caused the city grave trouble, judging by the sounds he had heard in his flight. Even now his presence here threatened the safety of the Gundersens, who had taken in a lonely traveler out of decency and good fellowship. But for the present there was nowhere else to go.
Great kami, what a mess. Got to get my story together, have an alibi for my whereabouts, see what nastiness I’ve spawned. What will Wilf and Strom say about my big theatrical departure, eh? Not too bright, Gonji-san. What the hell will I—
Voices outside the double barn doors. Arguing. The doors grated ajar—
“Keine Rede mehr! No more talk!” It was Wilf, followed closely by Strom.
“Wilfred, dummkopf, don’t be crazy! Get back in the house and wait for Papa, like he said.”
Wilf began saddling a horse. “I can’t stand it any longer. You heard the shots. I’ve got to see what’s happening. They may need help.”
“But Wilf, what the hell can you do? Best just to wait, nicht wahr? Isn’t it?”
Wilf sneered. “I can do plenty.” He held up Gonji’s spare katana.
“This isn’t like dueling Papa with sticks. They have guns.”
“Your father’s out there, idiot. Maybe shot by now. I’ve got to do something. I’ve always wanted to be a soldier, to be as good a soldier as he was. Maybe now’s the time to start.” Wilf tied off the saddle traces.
“All-recht, dumb ass,” Strom taunted, his lisp becoming more pronounced as his excitement increased. “Go on, get killed—you deserve it! I hope the flying dragon gobbles you down like a fish!”
Gonji chuckled to himself and was about to intervene when the search party arrived.
“You, in there! Come out. Who lives in this shop?”
Wilf and Strom stared at each other, paling noticeably even in the gray haze of the barn. Wilf’s bravado melted away. They moved reluctantly out into the street, leaving the door ajar behind them.
In the loft Gonji cursed the ill fortune he had brought on them all. He unsheathed the Sagami and dropped to the ground with a grunt, already aching muscles protesting the imminent return to action.
* * * *
Strom sat quietly on a stool, one leg drawn up under him. Wilf stood facing the three Llorm dragoons. At the behest of the leader one soldier began to snoop around the shop. They looked formidable standing in the room’s close quarters, their nicked and dusty armor evincing action. Wilf’s eyes kept straying to the eerie crest of Klann each man wore prominently, with its rampant beast of fable and device of seven interlocked circles. The two subordinates had face-protecting—and concealing—buffes now affixed to the Llorm burgonet helms. They looked like two huge menacing insects. The leader’s burgonet was open and bore an insignia of rank.
He removed the helm and tucked it under an arm. He was fiftyish, graying, with strong, square features; a shade shorter than Wilf, but with a powerful upper body and short, thick arms.
“So you were planning to go off and protect your father,” he said in German. “Very loyal son, you are. I had a son once,” he added, irrelevantly to Wilf, who had no idea how to take the man.
“I’m Captain Sianno, commander of the regulars garrisoned here, and if one wished to revolt, I suppose he could do no better than to start by killing me.”
Strom’s breath caught in his throat. Wilf blanched.
“Are you going to use that on me?” Sianno asked, nodding to the katana.
A pause. “Nein,” Wilf said in a cracked voice. And he was abruptly ashamed of his fear. But it was a fact and, as was his fashion, he accepted it. He laid the sword on the table.
“Good,” Sianno said, his tone not without compassion.
“But if I found you harmed my father,” Wilf said levelly, eager to salvage pride, “I’d have to kill you with it.”
Their eyes locked. The soldier behind Sianno tensed.
“Also good,” Sianno said, a thin smile curving his lips.
The cries of children could be heard in the rear of the shop. The third Llorm had opened the cellar door in the larder in which the refugees were secreted.
“Families of the castle troops—we’ve given them sanctuary,” Wilf said anxiously.
Sianno nodded. “Close the door and let them sleep, Xanthus. We have no desire to harm children. For that matter, we have no desire to harm anyone. I must order you to remain indoors tonight. Beginning tomorrow there’ll be a new curfew in effect—no one permitted out of doors once the lamps are extinguished. Now I must search your grounds—oh—” He had turned to go but stopped in his tracks. “You can enhance my high opinion of you by answering me truthfully: Have you any long-range weapons in your possession? Firearms or bows?”
Wilf indicated the back of the house
with a thumb. “My hunting bow. Why?”
“Such weapons are forbidden now in Vedun. They’re to be confiscated. Would you care to—”
“I’ll get it,” Strom blurted, leaping to the task.
“Danke,” Sianno said.
“Captain,” Wilf called to his departing back, “what about the captives at the castle? Will they be returned?”
Sianno paused, then said over his shoulder, “That’s not my province.” Then as he moved off, he added, “I’m sorry.”
Wilf stood under the canopy to watch them go about their work. Strom brought them the bow. There were three more Llorm, one bearing a torch. In the flickering yellow glow Wilf saw two figures approach at a trot—Garth and Lorenz. Seeing his father and brother arriving home safely, Wilf was flooded with relief. Then, overcome by an immense weight of emotion and fatigue, he slumped onto a chair and sullenly regarded the katana, his words of drunken bravado dancing mockingly in his head.
* * * *
Sianno and Garth searched each other’s faces a long space. The rest held their ground expectantly.
“Do I know you?” Sianno queried almost mischievously.
“I think not,” Garth replied, a curious hostile tic in his eye. “I don’t know you, Captain.”
“Time does have a way of obscuring memories, nicht wahr?”
“After a long time one begins to see recognition in every face.”
Sianno bowed shallowly in agreement.
“Ja,” Lorenz piped in, taking his father by the shoulders, “and after a long enough time one becomes old and tired. And right now my father is both. So if the commander has no further use for us—?”
“You may retire as soon as we’ve completed our search.”
“This is my house,” Garth said gruffly. “There, my stables; there, my storage shed. I have nothing to hide from you. Search them as you please.”
Lorenz’s eyes narrowed at his father’s petulant tone. Rare for him. The Llorm garrison commander stared at Garth with a look that defied analysis, as if he were calculating. He arrived at a satisfactory sum. With another bow to Garth he waved his men to their mounts.