Gonji: Deathwind of Vedun: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Three

by T. C. Rypel

  Gonji shrugged. “I think not. Probably trollops drawn by mercenary gold.”

  Simon strode forward with arms folded and loomed over the two frightened women. They shrank back from his huge, hovering form, regarding his silvery eyes with doom-laden stares, covering themselves.

  To see their horror he gave way a bit, stepped back a pace and dropped his arms to his sides.

  “You’ve been...,” he began uncertainly in High German, “you’ve been with very evil men. That was a mistake. Get your clothes, and get out of here. Say nothing to anyone about what or who you saw here. Don’t make me come after you.”

  They scampered to their clothes, put them on and, without a look to either Simon or Gonji, ran from the bath house. Gonji watched them go with menacing eyes, then looked to Simon, who stood with his back to him.

  “You could have done better than that,” the samurai advanced cautiously, “neh?”

  “What did you want me to do?” Simon spat, wheeling about. “I’m no monster! I could barely stand the way they looked at me.” He turned away again.

  Gonji nodded somberly. “Tralayn’s dead.”

  “I know. I went to the chapel looking for you. They sent me here. There’s something you have to see.”

  “What?”

  “You’ll see—at the slaughterhouse.”

  “Eh?” Gonji’s eyebrows arched. But Simon would say no more. He merely turned up the cowl of his cloak and moved to the lobby door.

  “You’d better not go like that,” Simon said over his shoulder.

  Gonji grunted and set to garbing himself. When he was clothed and cloaked, they dragged the three bodies into the latrine, locked the bath house, and sprinted off through the dreary back lanes toward the slaughterhouse in the southern quarter. The fog dispersed by degrees, but the rain began stippling the city anew.

  The streets of Vedun burgeoned now with human and animal shapes that slogged along in rain-toned iron grays and mousy browns, their muttering and barking and caterwauling muted and echoed in the ears of the pair of renegades who sped through the steep-walled labyrinth of ancient back lanes.

  When they reached the animal pens of the slaughterhouse district, Simon’s presence agitated the beasts into a clamorous, tossing frenzy. He growled at them, in futile anger, stirring them even more.

  They entered through the rear of the long, low granite building where provisioners in bloodied aprons greeted them tersely, then led them past butchers, who paused and gaped before joining up at the rear of the gradually lengthening procession.

  Gonji slowly brought his twisted facial muscles under control; the offensive stench of the place was something he always chose to avoid. Acquiring the taste for meat was one thing, but dealing with the physical details of the butcher’s trade was something else.

  The provisioners ushered the pair past the flaming ovens, where waste was destroyed, and led them to a preparing room hung with both fresh slabs of meat and sections for curing and salting. Many kept their distance from Simon, viewing his ominous predatory-elfish appearance askance or averting their gazes altogether. The barking and snarling of Roric’s huge dogs could be heard echoing in the chamber.

  Gonji paused outside and glanced around the crowd quizzically. “Well?” he said. “What’s this all about?”

  “Come in, Gonji,” Roric called from the chamber. Some in the crowd crossed themselves or made other warding signs. Sweating brows and darting eyes evinced their disquiet.

  Gonji and Simon moved into the chamber. Roric stood flanked by Wilf, who moved forward to greet them, and Vlad Dobroczy. A few other farmers hovered nearby with creased brows, and off to one side, apart from the rest, stood Garth, cap in one hand and head hanging low.

  They looked where Roric and Wilf pointed. The provisioner’s dogs held at bay a large black ram, whose features caused Gonji to start. A chill of revulsion tracked up his spine.

  The animal exuded an almost human sentience. Its eyes were shaped like a cat’s, the irises hued a piercing yellow. Its teeth were bared, the lips drawn back not in menace at the growling dogs but rather in a semblance of ghastly smile, a grinning death’s-head.

  “It was found with Strom Gundersen’s scattered flock,” Vlad Dobroczy declared portentously. “None of the other animals would go near it. Some herdsmen saw it and came to me. I helped them drive it in.”

  “The damned thing’s almost...Satanic,” a butcher said, rapt by its sight, crossing himself as if in reparation for having spoken the evil name.

  “And Strom?” Gonji asked of Vlad. The farmer shrugged and averted his eyes.

  “Gone,” Roric spoke softly.

  Gonji searched out Garth, but the smith would not meet his gaze. Simon focused lances of revulsion on the eerie creature.

  The event’s portent seemed clear to all. They waited expectantly to hear what their military leader would propose.

  “Call off the dogs,” Gonji ordered Roric. The provisioner complied, the straining, barking animals being withdrawn from the chamber.

  The black ram tilted its head as if in amusement. When its evil eyes locked with Gonji’s, its strange smile seemed to expand.

  Then, snorting and emitting a guttural outcry, it charged straight at the samurai, curved horns angled for mayhem.

  * * * *

  King Klann sat back heavily in his gilt-crusted chair. His wine flagon swung loosely in his slackened grip. His officers and attendants studied him narrowly, apprehensive of the effect this shocking intelligence would have on their liege. Mord stood before the king, arms folded, reeking of confidence and self-satisfaction.

  Klann stared in disbelief at the parquet floor for a ponderous moment, slumping forward, elbows on knees. No one expected the reaction that followed. The king snorted and laughed, first softly and in a thin timbre, then uproariously, imperial head flinging back.

  “A revolt and evacuation?” he bellowed in an incredulous voice. “Can you believe them, Gorkin?”

  The castellan’s posturing and headshake clearly indicated his shared surprise.

  “Stupid, stubborn, courageous people,” Klann reflected, causing them to ponder his meaning. “Weapons in coffins! Can you doubt their pluck when they’d try something like this? To evacuate their innocents under fire of three entire occupation companies—? Marvelous!”

  A few soughings of breathy surprise were evoked from the advisers. His attitude was wholly unexpected. Mord’s gloved hands levitated slowly at his sides.

  “I would hardly have expected your Majesty’s reaction to be so laudatory,” the sorcerer complained.

  Klann scowled at him. “My warrior’s empathy always makes me admire a people who aren’t afraid to fight for what they believe. And all the while they’ve played at passive resistance and blank-faced ignorance of these clandestine raids!” He smiled and shook his head in perverse pride. “That old magistrate—Flavio—what an actor, even to the grave! You did well to steer us to this place, Mord, and once again we’ve proven our wisdom in selecting it.”

  He chuckled, and his administrators joined in tentatively.

  Mord’s voice boomed with sepulchral disapproval. “You’ll want to wait till the morrow’s dawning, then, after I’ve received a fresh imputation of the Dark Lord’s power. Tonight—the full moon’s focus, and the faith chant which will imbue me with the force necessary to lay these rebels low.”

  The king’s look unnerved him. It was laced with suspicion, almost accusative. “Why do that?”

  “Well, to...to allow them to make their overture of revolt and then teach them the lesson they’re so anxious to learn.” Apprehension strained Mord’s words.

  “I think not,” the king declared. “We’ll worry about your...additional power later. For now, I think we’ll be riding to Vedun—”

  “Mi-lord!” the advisers entreated as a body.

  “Surely, sire,” Captain Sianno pleaded, “you’ll not be going back there again. Not after the last time. Why, they already owe you their u
nworthy lives tenfold and again for sparing them after....” The captain’s voice failed him at recounting the treacherous poisoning and new Rising.

  Klann blared a belly laugh. “Think you that they’d try such a thing again? I daresay they’re still whispering and crossing themselves superstitiously over what they glimpsed of our enchanted heritage. And they do need to espy, now and again, the countenance of their liege lord, don’t they, Sianno?” He rose and clamped an affectionate hand on the captain’s shoulder. “Especially such a shifty face as that of Klann the Invincible!” Good-natured laughter leaked off some of the tension.

  Mord shared none of the humor. “I must protest this venture, sire. With all due respect, it’s little more than abject folly.”

  “Mind your tongue, magician,” General Gorkin warned.

  “These people have fighting spirit, Mord,” Klann said. “I want to move among them for myself. I want the pleasure of announcing the new military decree. Martial law in Vedun, a city of the martial-minded, where it ought to suit their tastes. And since they’re incorrigible and spoiling for a fight, whatever the cost, then they can have their fill—”

  Mord’s head lifted imperceptibly as his tenebrous spirit fumed with delight. But it was short-lived.

  “—we’re going to conscript all able-bodied men into the army for next spring’s assault on Akryllon! All their weapons will be confiscated, their wagons will be placed under guard, and our new military governor will assume command.”

  “Who might that be, Milord?” General Gorkin asked.

  Klann gestured at Sianno. “Captain, I believe you’d be well suited for the job. Surely you must be weary of so many years in faithful battlefield service.”

  “If it please you, sire.” Sianno’s frowning lack of enthusiasm indicated his obvious displeasure, but Klann paid him no heed.

  “My armor!” Klann called out, sending personal servants scrambling. He tipped his flagon for a long draught, wiped his mouth, still grinning with satisfaction. “This day bodes well—you’ve pleased us with your intelligence, Mord. Don’t be so glum. We’ll keep them under the oppressive fist you favor so. Oh—and your giant, Tumo—We’ll want him to go along to shackle their restive spirit, but we’ll want you to remain here. Can you guarantee that he’ll respond without fail to my orders and those of my officers?”

  “Unconditionally, sire,” Mord replied. “Tumo knows his lord, and his proper place.”

  “Yes, and that reminds me—no, not that one—” Servants had retrieved Klann’s suit of scarred battle armor. His outburst froze them midway into the chamber. “We’re not going there to fight them! Bring us our finest dignitary array, and see that it’s polished to a blinding sheen. This is their liege lord going to them. Their conqueror, not their conqueror-to-be!”

  The servants shrank before his imperious mien and rushed out again, whispering accusations and recriminations.

  “Now,” Klann continued, “what was I saying?”

  “That the giant...reminded you of something—?” an adviser blurted in an inquisitive tone.

  “Ah, so I did. Your wyvern’s roost, Mord—it’s empty of late. What’s become of our winged protector?”

  “He’s...on something of a mission,” Mord lied. “I’ve set him to tracking down those outsiders who have helped stir the province to rebellion against you.”

  Klann nodded. “That Mongol bandit with the singing swords and that...agile murderer who eludes whole companies of archers—they’re still about, you say? And Julian—where is he while they roam freely?”

  The question was rhetorical, but Gorkin responded needlessly, “At his headquarters in the city, sire.”

  “They’re about—those troublemakers,” Mord concurred, “but not so important as you might believe, milord. They merely agitated trouble in a city that was already rampant with treason.”

  “Just see to it that your wyvern doesn’t fail.”

  “He’s very thorough, sire.”

  Klann’s resplendent armor arrived, and the servants dressed him in it, topping the gleaming golden half-armor with an ornate winged helm that had been wrought in Akryllon, a treasure of great value that drew gasps and whispers when it was placed upon the king’s head.

  “You are sovereign lord of the territory,” Gorkin voiced in awe. “All men seeing you shall know it.”

  Klann viewed his servile flattery with a slightly skewed expression but assented wearily.

  As he strode from the chamber, fastening his broadsword’s baldric, his retainers in tow, Klann stopped and addressed Mord.

  “I never did ask you, sorcerer—who was your source for this intelligence about the planned rebellious action?”

  Mord’s eyes smiled, widening in the black pits of the gold mask. “A citizen of Vedun. Someone who has decided that fealty to the king is of paramount concern.”

  “Never mind,” Klann said, frowning. “I’d rather not know.”

  “Ah, but milord would find this person’s identity especially amusing, methinks—”

  “Forget it!” Klann snapped, lowering his voice at once. “Suffice it that the deed is done, and we take no special pleasure in acts of conspiracy.” He marched out, leaving Mord to shrug in silence, his head tipped awry as if in condescending regard of the fumbling ways of a child.

  When the room was empty, Mord’s hissing laughter issued from the breath holes of his mask, rising in sibilant triumph to echo in the vaulted ceiling of the king’s sanctum.

  The fool, he thought. His Royal Multiplicity can’t decide what he wants. I removed a soft monarch and replaced him with a capricious one. Who would have thought the idiot would find their resistance commendable! This deposed nomad desires valor from both friend and foe alike! And he suspects me, yet he does nothing about it because he needs me so and is pleased to have been freed from limbo. Isn’t that touching!

  But now I see that I should have waited till the morrow to tell him of their insurrection plan. My worry was unfounded that Klann might not marshal his forces against them swiftly enough. No need to fret. By tonight’s darkest hour my power will be such that I can begin to manipulate them all against each other when I choose. There are many of them, counting both sides, so I’ll have to be careful. But I have my power—and the knowledge of the catacombs, which I’m pleased I withheld from Klann. Yes...before they realize what I’ve done, the slaughter will have commenced.

  I shall have wiped Vedun from the face of the earth, and the League’s compact will be fulfilled. The Necromancers will be free of the last human claim to Akryllon....

  Mord’s eyes clouded with mists of rage when he remembered that oriental thorn and his more intriguing, enigmatic partner—the audacious pair who had somehow eliminated the wyvern. His gloved fists pressed the jaw-lines of his mask. Then he leaned forward on the arms of the king’s opulent private chair, the chair that would be his in a matter of hours.

  They would know torment, those two. They would pay the agonizing price of defiance. Whoever, whatever this so-called Deathwind was, he and his slant-eyed barbarian companion would know the terror of the hunted. For tonight, the Dark Master would grant Mord control of the Hell-Hound.

  And against the Hell-Hound there was no protection in heaven or on earth.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “Look out!”

  Black smoke fumed from the ram’s nostrils as it charged the poised samurai.

  Gonji drew and sidestepped in a single motion, slashing down viciously and cleaving through the creature’s backbone and spine. It bleated in a subhuman voice, its legs splaying out beneath it as it fell heavily. Two swift blows severed its horned head.

  Gurgles of revulsion from the observers. A thick inky fluid leaked from the beast’s gaping neck.

  Gonji grimaced as he cleaned the Sagami. “Burn this thing,” he said tonelessly.

  They stared at it awhile before anyone moved. No one mentioned Strom’s name again for a time, nor did any among them meet Garth’s eyes. All the while G
onji observed their reactions, anger and anxiety welling up in his chest as he considered his next action.

  “Black ram at the full of the moon,” a butcher said, crossing himself. “That’s an evil omen.”

  “We’ve had a few lately,” Roric calmly reminded him.

  “Ja,” another man fretted, hysteria stirring in the tremor of his voice and the flicker of his eyes, “this one—the evil face in the mountains—monsters in our skies—”

  “We’re doomed,” another said, shaking his head hopelessly.

  “Forget the old tribal beliefs,” Roric said. “You’re a Christian now. These omens can’t harm you, if—”

  “Gonji just slew your omen here,” Wilf interrupted. “And there are no more wyverns in the sky.” He bobbed his head at Gonji, who didn’t return the gesture but only brooded silently as he wiped his blade.

  Wilf pointed in astonishment. “Gonji—the Sagami’s nicked.”

  “Hai,” the samurai concurred in an abrupt tone, as if the matter were of no consequence—or of such embarrassment that he wished to gloss it over swiftly. He swept the katana back into its scabbard without a glance at Wilf. He shot a look to Simon Sardonis, who was moving past him. “And it will be duly repaired, later.”

  The band fell to muted whispering when Simon knelt beside the ram’s head, seized a ringed horn in both hands, and snapped it off with a powdery crumbling sound.

  “Feels like your ruined crops,” he said, his raspy voice causing some of them to look from one to the other. “The same magick—Mord....”

  “Michael had better hear of this,” Roric said.

  He designated one of the provisioners as a runner, but then Gonji shattered the tentative mood of the gathering.

  “Hai, bring Michael here,” he shouted after the runner. “And while you’re out there, tell Lydia and Lorenz and those others who find my suspicions offensive that there are no traitors in Vedun!”

  “What are you saying?” Garth asked quietly.

  Gonji ignored the question. “When did you last see your son, the shepherd?”