by T. C. Rypel
“Are you accusing Strom of being a traitor?”
“Nein, I’m asking you when you last saw him.”
A red flush slowly colored Garth’s face, starting at his neck. “My son is not a traitor,” came his deliberate words.
“There seems to be some evidence to the contrary,” Vlad Dobroczy offered out of the corner of his mouth.
“Shut up, Hawk,” Wilf warned.
“Where did you learn such haughty words, farmer?” Garth asked threateningly. “Don’t move me to actions I’ll be sorry for, Vladimir.”
“No one’s accusing Strom, Garth,” Gonji said. But his unspoken agreement with Vlad hung about them oppressively.
“And what would you do if you thought he was a spy for Mord—behead him, as you did Boris?”
Garth’s angry words had a telling effect on the crowd in the slaughterhouse. Wilf looked embarrassed. He had advised Gonji to tell no one of the manner of Boris’ execution. But he himself had told his father.
The samurai gave no sign of offense. His eyes swept downward, his thoughts preoccupied with crumbling unity and failing leadership.
“Yesterday morning,” Garth said softly in the icy stillness, “at the meeting, when the assignments were passed out. That was the last time I saw him. So you have your answer. But I swear to you this—” He pointed a stubby finger at Gonji. “My son is not a traitor. He has a kind heart. There is no guile or treachery in him. He hasn’t the cunning for it, God knows, and what would motivate him? I’ll tell you what I think of this business. I think the Gundersens are being used again, as scapegoats. By Mord or whoever, I cannot tell. But that’s what I say. The Gundersens are used and accused, and there will be an end of it. Vielleicht—perhaps, it is time for the Gundersens to fight back, God forgive me.”
Gonji’s eyes narrowed. “Perhaps it is,” he agreed gently.
Garth stormed out into the main cutting chamber.
“We’ll need you here,” Gonji called after him.
“You know where to find me.” The smith’s broad back disappeared around a corner on the main avenue side.
“You don’t think Strom really is a traitor, do you?” Wilf asked with concern. Others also voiced their incredulity.
“I don’t know, Wilf,” Gonji replied, rubbing his neck. “Someone is. Maybe more than one.”
“I don’t doubt it, after seeing this,” Dobroczy griped.
Wilf moved toward him, one hand sliding along the hilt of Spine-cleaver. “If you accuse my brother, you accuse me, pinhead.”
“Your opinion doesn’t count,” Vlad sneered, clawing for his dirk. “You see with the eyes of a brother only.”
“Save it, both of you,” Gonji roared. “You’re going to need it.”
“I can’t believe it’s Strom....”
“He was Boris’ friend.”
“It’s not Strom....”
Simon’s throaty voice gained their attention. He leaned with his back to a wall. When he saw them all looking, his eyes flicked about the room nervously, enjoining discreet distance.
“How do you know that?” Gonji queried.
Simon stared through him a moment, then shrugged, lowering his gaze. “I just know it. I’ve watched him in the hills. I know his moves. It’s not him.”
Gonji frowned. “Then you’ve been watching the wrong person’s moves.”
Roric started a work party on the grisly task of cleaning up the remains of the demonic ram. The carcass was removed with poles and burned in the ovens while they discussed the matter in desultory fashion. As they did so, Gonji paced the room, hands behind his back, and raked back and forth in his mind over what he knew and suspected. At length he assembled them again.
“Here is what I think: I think Mord’s sent us a sign that we’re at his mercy. And I say we pursue the ragged remains of our plan. Let’s spit in his eye—Roric, send some of your men after the leaders. Get Monetto and Gerhard, Anton, Berenyi, Nagy, the others.... Get them here right now.”
The messengers were sent out at the run. Roric had ale brought in and poured for those who remained; water, for those who declined it as Gonji did.
“I’m going out,” Simon announced suddenly.
“Where?” Gonji asked.
“To find Strom.”
The reckoning was approaching. Gonji knew that Simon might indeed plan to do what he said, yet of more compelling concern was the accursed man’s need to flee the company of other humans. Tonight—the full moon, still several hours off. But already Simon was behaving like snared game, so urgent was his need to be alone.
Yet Gonji’s own sense of urgency drove him on in the deception he must presently disclose.
“I wish you’d wait till the leaders arrive. There are plans we must discuss, and you’ve made yourself part of this now.”
Simon seemed unsettled by the others’ darting glances, and he leaned back languidly against the wall, where he sipped from his goblet, still apart from them.
Deep within, Gonji felt a flooding of relief.
“Well, I’m ready for whatever happens,” Vlad Dobroczy said, offering his cup in a toast. “First the city, then the castle!” Some of them took it up. Wilf pretended not to hear him.
Gonji studied the farmer closely, curious about his new spirit of cooperation. He had no sound reason for suspecting Dobroczy, yet....
The castle.
“Wait!” Gonji shouted, startling them. “Where’s that girl? The one with the mourning face and the cornsilk hair—Genya’s friend. I never did get a chance to speak with her. First she’s at the castle and Strom’s here. Then she’s here and Strom’s—? Strom did smuggle her in—”
“Lottie Kovacs?” Wilf interjected, his face twisted.
“Hai, bring her here—if she can still be found in the city.”
Confused and ill at ease, Wilf went to the Vargos’ to fetch the girl.
“I remember someone...,” Gonji went on distractedly, “someone at the castle, looking down at us. A woman, I thought. She was looking down through a crack in a gallery door, but when I caught sight of her she disappeared.... It was someone who didn’t want to be seen there.”
His words evoked confused mutterings and wild speculations that Gonji steered away from, choosing instead to mull over his own ideas. His eyes twitched with petulance.
Berenyi and Nagy arrived in the throes of another argument, Michael Benedetto close behind them. Not long after, Wilf returned with a suspicious Lottie Kovacs and, curiously, Karl Gerhard.
The dour archer stepped between Gonji and Lottie when cursory greetings were out of the way.
“Now what’s your problem?” Gonji asked.
“What’s this all about? Why do you want to talk to Lottie?”
Gonji peered closely at him. “More trouble? You and I have never had trouble, Karl. I just want to ask the girl a few questions, that’s all. Something bothers me. What’s your connection to her?”
“We’re just...friends,” Gerhard replied defensively.
“Ja, they used to be good friends,” the cheerful voice of Aldo Monetto called out from the doorway. “Phew! Why don’t you do something about the stench in this place, Roric?” And then, back to Karl and Lottie: “You two getting acquainted again?”
Gerhard waved a hand at his friend disdainfully. Lottie made no reaction. Her small, pouty mouth held its grave set. Her eyes were demurely lidded and angled at the greasy floor. She pulled her shawl close about her.
“Nice meeting places you pick, sensei,” Monetto chided jokingly.
Gonji pushed past Gerhard and stood before the girl.
“Something’s been bothering me, Lottie. You said you fled the castle during the confusion on the night King Klann came to the city.”
“That’s right,” she said, shrinking back under his steely gaze.
“How was it accomplished? In a wagon, you said?” Gonji persisted.
“A grain wagon,” she responded, her face clouding with the beginnings of emotion.
Gonji nodded, his smile impenetrable.
“This is ridiculous, Gonji,” Karl complained. “We know all this—”
“Tell me,” Gonji persisted, ignoring the archer, “your boyfriend, eh—?”
“Richard,” Wilf filled in.
“Hai, Richard. Your Richard is a baker, nicht wahr?”
“Not just an ordinary baker,” Monetto called merrily, sloshing ale into his flagon. “A ‘bun-brains,’ eh?”
A few nervous laughs.
“Ja, he’s a baker. But what—?” she began warily.
“Then if you made your plan,” Gonji reasoned, “and it involved a grain wagon at the bakehouse, why was Richard unable to accompany you? Exactly what happened to him?”
Monetto laughed, and Berenyi joined him.
“Richard, Squire Bun-brains, isn’t exactly a tower of courage,” Stefan offered sarcastically. “It’s maybe a contest between him and this old man here for—”
Nick Nagy jumped up and made a move toward him. “Watch it, you little shit! Sorry, young lady.” He made a conciliatory gesture, but Lottie had seemed to hear none of it. She was staring fixedly before her.
“Sei stille—shut up—all you clowns!” Gerhard demanded. “You’re getting personal now, sensei.” He looked at Lottie before continuing. “The fact is that things haven’t been running smoothly between them lately, and....” His words dwindled, but the meaning came through clearly. Monetto fluttered his eyebrows at Berenyi.
“I see,” Gonji said, strolling now, hands clasped behind him.
“Do you have a reason for this?” Karl asked. “I mean—Gott in Himmel!” Realization dawned, and his pale eyes deepened in their sockets. “Are you accusing her of spying? Her father was murdered.”
Lottie began to tremble. By the respectful murmuring, it was clear that the morbid reminder had exonerated the girl in consensus.
“I know that,” Gonji allowed, his back to them. “But I also know that there was no grain wagon, either to or from the castle, on the night she speaks of.” Rasping inhalations. “The last piece of usable information I had from Old Gort before he was murdered—the log he kept for me.”
Gonji peered over his shoulder at Lottie, and she began to sob. Tears streamed down her doleful face, and her breath hitched pathetically. Gerhard held her, burying her face in his shoulder. He cast an angry, tight-lipped expression at Gonji.
It seemed to the samurai that they were a curious match, too similar to be attracted. Both fair and blue-eyed, with the facial sets of professional mourners.
“Do you have to do this?” Karl said barely above a whisper. There were no jokes now among the self-conscious watchers. Only quiet anticipation.
Gonji said nothing, his face impassive. Waiting.
Lottie pushed away from Karl and dried her tears, pulled herself up tall. A rigidity seized her. Pride, or defiance.
“Nein,” she said, brushing at her hair in sudden umbrage, “I didn’t escape by wagon. I didn’t have to. I walked right out, you see....”
There was something disquieting in the woman’s manner that held them transfixed.
“Walked right out, through the gate. It was easy.” Her tone dripped with contempt. “After all, I’m a woman. So it’s easy for me. All I had to do was surrender myself to the lust of that pig who stewards the larders. Oh, of course it took time. Once is not enough. But it gets easier after the first time. So easy—do you understand now?” Her voice cracked as she choked back a sob. One by one the men’s gazes fell away from her searching eyes of frosted blue. “It’s you big brave men who have the tough job. You have to pick up a sword and slay them. But it was easy for me. Do you—do you want all the details now?”
She paused, shaking, then glared at Gonji. “No one put a sword in my hand.”
Lottie broke down into waves of angry tears again. Karl moved forward to comfort her, but she pushed him away and turned to the wall, hugging herself and muttering imprecations. No other sound penetrated the breathless heat of embarrassment in the room until Wilf spoke.
“Lottie—Lottie, what about Genya?”
She turned, puffy-eyed. “Genya, Genya, Genya! What are you afraid of, Wilfred? That she’ll be as weak as I was?”
“Genya’s your friend, Lottie—”
“Ja, my brave friend. You don’t have to worry, Wilf. Genya would rather die than submit. She’s strong. She doesn’t fear death. She’s too much in control for that. Men fall over each other for her attentions, and then they’re afraid of her. Nein—not Genya. It’s the weak that have to suffer in this madness. Genya gets her way, you bold warriors take up arms—but what am I to do? People murdered and tortured all around me—the evil magician following me, asking about me—my family gone—what was I to do?” She caught her breath. Grim resolution informed her tone. “I would not spend another day in that awful place. So, military commander,” she railed at Gonji, “have I satisfied your curiosity? Have I made it plain enough for you? My love of life won out over my affection for Richard. Some feelings turn out to be stronger than others, don’t they? Anyway—” She laughed harshly. “—he wouldn’t want me now...like this, would he?”
Karl draped his coat over her shoulders. “You needn’t put yourself through this, Lottie.” He cast Gonji a stern look and led her from the slaughterhouse.
No one spoke for a space. Gonji sighed and rubbed his neck, growling pensively. He felt sympathy for the woman; but her self-pity annoyed him. To his way of thinking, she had done the cowardly thing. No samurai woman would ever have submitted to such treatment to obtain freedom. Yet he knew he was being unreasonable. The damnable cross-cultural conflict again....
“Touché,” Simon said, stinging him out of his reverie.
“Gomen nasai—so sorry, gentils,” Gonji said not without a trace of rancor. “From here on you can investigate your own compatriots’ treachery—I no longer care.”
“Forget it now, Gonji,” Michael said. “What do you propose? I don’t believe this business about Strom Gundersen being in league with the sorcerer.”
“Nor do I, I suppose,” Gonji agreed, some of the men concurring, “but—”
“What did we miss?” Jiri Szabo’s pleasant youthful voice called out as he moved lithely into the room. The Gray knight Anton limped in close after him. A few steps behind—the band parting to give him respectful room—Garth strode in, his broadsword belted to his waist, a baldric across his shoulder.
Gonji peered at him expectantly, adrenaline rushing to see the once mighty warrior’s formidable bearing.
“Welcome again, Herr Gundersen.”
Garth nodded curtly.
“We’re all here,” Michael declared. “Now how do we go about picking up the pieces?”
Gonji folded his arms and inhaled deeply. “Send everyone home quietly from their jobs, sector by sector.... Have the chapel bell rung for services.... Women, children, old and infirm to the catacombs. Slowly, gentils. Calmly. Start the alert, one team to each sector....
“Shi-kaze is now.”
* * * *
“You yellow devil! You planned it this way—you knew all along!”
Gonji glared at Simon. “That today would be the day of uprising? Of course. It had to be. I needed some measure of surprise against the likelihood that the traitor could get to Mord.”
“Well, you’ve lost my assistance, fool,” Simon rasped. “Did you really think you could force me to be swept up in this? You’re a lunatic. You say Tralayn told you of my curse. You understand that I must be far from humankind on this night, and yet you try to deceive me like this—why? Do you really have any idea of what you’re asking?”
“Hai,” Gonji replied.
They were alone in the curing room, yet Simon glanced over his shoulder to be sure none in the slaughterhouse were near enough to hear. There was scurrying activity without. All were preoccupied with the imminent evacuation and battle. But still Simon spoke in a whisper.
“I was right when I fi
rst saw you,” he said, silver eyes staring at the samurai in disbelief. “I should have killed you that first night when I sensed the trouble you were stirring.”
“The trouble preceded me here.”
“Oui?” Simon responded in a choked voice. “Well now you can finish it yourself.”
He turned to leave, batted a joint of beef out of his path. It swung creakingly on its hook.
“Why can’t you do it, Simon?” Gonji called out, halting him.
“Keep your damned voice down.” The words ground through clenched teeth.
“Why can’t you use the power of the Beast against the invaders?”
“Shut up! It’s impossible. Can’t you accept anyone’s word?”
“Have you ever tried to control it on the night of the full moon? Have you ever had reason before?” Gonji took a step toward him, emotion rising.
Simon extended a clawed hand as if he would throttle him. “Would you like to stand before me while I tried?” A mad gleam sparkled in his eyes.
“If need be,” Gonji answered evenly. “Why can’t you try? What are you afraid of?”
“If you need to ask that, then you are mad. Have you any idea what it could do—unleashed like that—this thing inside me?”
“We’re all willing to risk that.”
Simon snorted. “You presume much, to speak for all these people.”
“I am the military commander, and that is my right—what do you fear? That people will see what you cannot help being? That is the lot of all of us, isn’t it?”
“Non, you infidel bastard!”
“Well, then what?”
Simon roared at the top of his voice: “Because if I die on this night, it will be freed to join its demon father—it wins! They win!”
His eyes gaped, and his gaze drifted slowly groundward. His long fingers were balled into pale fists at his sides. A breath shudderingly passed his lips, as if a great burden had been lifted. But Simon remained adamant.
“Do what you must,” he said, “but do it without me.” He pushed through the sides of beef and out into the main butchering area.
“All right,” the samurai shouted at his back, “go away and live forever—the lonely beast. But don’t seek out human companionship the next time you’re dying inside of emptiness. Go up into the mountains and bay at the moon with the wolves!”