by T. C. Rypel
Gonji’s fury echoed in the nearly abandoned slaughterhouse as Simon disappeared through a rear exit into the wet back alleys, the limp from the arrow wound all but gone.
PART TWO
SHI-KAZE
“All that our hearts desire is death in war”
—Aztec motto
CHAPTER TWELVE
Despite the expected confusion and reluctance, the movement of non-combatants began, sector by sector.
Women, children, and elderly folk, the crippled and the ill, all started to head to the chapel. Through the spattering rain they shuffled—anxiously, bewildered, terrified, though trying to appear normal—in response to the surreptitious order, as the chapel bell tolled in pious and mournful deception.
Galioto the stockman, placed in charge of the catacomb descent, ushered them in. The older people shook their wet garb in the vestibule, then genuflected and crossed themselves upon entering the nave. Some shook their heads and clucked or beat their breasts to see the irreverent positioning of armed militiamen in the chapel. The children whispered and snickered, eyes bright with excited anticipation, to feel the adults’ tension. Some gawked in wonder, their parents’ bewildering words of preparation still fresh in their minds.
Galioto moved them into pews amid shuffling and the slapping of moist footfalls. When the nave was near to full and the new arrivals dwindled to a trickle, it was found that this first sector of eight—the northwest portion of Vedun—was short by several families. There was nothing to do but send out messengers to check on the absent, while the second series of tolling was begun, designed to attract the next sector’s innocents.
Michael Benedetto arrived a short while later. The new council leader was the coordinator of the evacuation movement. Michael notified Galioto that military interest in the chapel service was minimal. The young Elder then limped to the pulpit with the aid of his crutch, where he led the gathering in a short benediction and a nervous hymn.
Galioto mopped the sweat from his perpetually worried brow and aided Danko, the tanner who had lost an eye in the training, in carrying a pew over to a window. Other pairs of militiamen performed similar actions at each chapel window, where tools were laid out in case it would become necessary to fortify the windows against assault.
The dairy stockman waved a weak gesture of encouragement to his own wife and smiled to his children. Then he spoke to his partner.
“Danko,” he began, “Danko, how would you go—you know what I mean—if you had to, and you could choose?”
Danko aimed his dark eye patch at him and replied in choppy Italian, “Die, you mean? You’re asking if I had to die?”
“Shh! Si, I—you—you know. Would you choose a pistol ball? Or the sword? Or—?”
“Not by sorcerer’s beasts,” Danko snorted, his twitching grin dissolving at once. He jerked a thumb at his ruined eye. “Not by pole-arm again, either, I think. Even though I know what that feels like. I guess...maybe...maybe I’d choose a pistol ball. It looks...quick.” His breath came in sibilant gasps.
“Quick,” Galioto repeated thoughtfully, nodding and rubbing his nose. “Si, I suppose you’re right. Quick might be best. I don’t—I don’t think I could stand much pain.”
“There’s no good way.”
The hymn completed, Michael gently urged the congregation forward. When the vestibule sentries had signaled that no soldiers lurked about, the catacomb door was sprung open, concealed behind the altar. An escort party in half-armor gingerly prodded the first few refugees into the torch-lit tunnel just as the second sector’s non-combatants began to enter the vestibule.
Some wore their fears on their faces, while others managed to muster courage, or stoicism, or whatever optimistic resignation they needed to remove the children from the shapeless terrors to come. The children, for their part, went along trustingly, jostling and tittering, their small hands safely tucked into larger ones, arresting their silliness whenever they passed under the staid, timeless gazes of the Christ, and the saints, amid the statuary at the altar.
Then a woman in the vestibule started to sob. Efforts at calming her triggered a wave of hysteria. Some at the tunnel entrance now demurred, fell back. Others sat heavily on the soft-nap carpet, shaking their heads in refusal. The children caught the older folks’ panic, and there was an epidemic outbreak of snuffling.
Galioto cast Michael a plaintive gaze.
From outside, they could now hear shouts and screams and the clash of steel in the distance. With the first report of pistol fire, the militiamen in the chapel drew their blades. Some threw open a coffin lid and retrieved longbows and arbalests. But the crush of non-combatants’ bodies made it impossible for them to focus on possible action.
* * * *
The woman sipped from her goblet, trembling under Salavar’s cruel gaze. Captain Julian Kel’Tekeli ordered her to repeat her story, but her companion did it for her.
“So he got Luba,” the captain recounted. “You’re sure it was the samurai?”
The trollop bobbed her head with certainty, but Julian didn’t bother to look. He knew.
“And this other man with him—who was he? Did you ever see him around Vedun before?”
“He was a giant,” the first woman muttered. Her voice shrank to a whisper. “Looked like—like paintings I’ve seen of...the night dancers of the wood. Only he was a giant.”
The other woman spoke chillingly. “No one who sees this man could ever forget him.”
Julian strolled as he spoke. “So he’s come back, too—that one. A shaft in the ass wasn’t deterrent enough for him. All right...we’ll find out what he’s made of.”
The women had run from the bath house half-clad, badly shaken by their encounter with Simon and Gonji. One of them sat with her arms folded across her bare breasts, a man’s jack draped over her shoulders. Salavar saw the soldiers who had brought them elbowing each other and leering.
He snatched a cloak off one of the mercenaries and flung it at the exposed woman.
“Wrap that around you,” he commanded. “You’re not entertaining now. This is a military inquisition. You—” He leveled a calloused hand at the soldiers. “—stand at attention. You’re not at the inn now.”
Salavar caught a smirk and strolled across the floor to pass in front of them. When he reached the end man, he turned to face him squarely. His right leg snapped up and out and kicked the mercenary full in the belly, knocking him back against the wall, where he sprawled, doubling over. The second man in line turned ashen when he saw Salavar’s catlike smile.
“That will do, Salavar,” Julian said. “You ladies may leave us now,” he continued, indicating the door.
The women looked at each other.
“He—he promised he’d kill us—the giant man,” one of them fretted. “You can’t send us out there alone.”
“We’ve got to get away from here,” the other concurred. “Far away.”
Julian rolled his eyes. “Salavar, would you care to escort these fine ladies as far as the postern gate?”
“Only to the gate?” they said as one. “But then we’ll be alone on the road—it’ll be night before long, and—”
Salavar grunted. “If it’s all the same, why can’t you have these lazy bastards ride them out. I’ve no time for whores now, not with high-priced quarry about.”
Julian nodded. “All right. You men, see them out. Then report back to Ivar within the hour, is that clear?”
The mercenary squad ushered the tearful women out of the headquarters building. When they were alone, Julian and Salavar began loading and priming pistols, methodically and in silence. They wrapped the firearms against the rain and prepared to leave.
Salavar ran a finger along the deadly edge of his battle axe, then donned his cloak and hefted the piece onto his shoulder. He sniffed, his long mustache jiggling, and he met Julian’s eyes, his own flickering with calculation.
“Listen,” Julian said, “I want that oriental alive, if you find hi
m.”
“You’ll get him with life left in him. Don’t worry. What about this ‘giant elf’ they’re talking about? How much for him?”
Julian thought back to the stranger’s fight with Field Commander Ben-Draba. “You bring him in by yourself, and you can name your fee.”
“I’ve been known to command a good one for special cases like this.”
“Just get him,” the captain said, “and bring him before King Klann. I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.”
As they moved out into the hissing rain and mounted, a rider splashed to a halt before Julian, saluted, and spoke breathlessly.
“Captain, the king’s coming to the city.”
“Now?” The messenger assented, and Julian went on in surprise. “But why? Why come here again, after the last time?”
“He brings the 2nd Free Company—and Tumo. They’ve discovered some kind of rebellion plot.”
Julian called out orders, and the best troopers from the 1st Free Company mounted and secured their weapons in hurried response. In moments they were pounding away from the sparsely populated southeast sector, headed for the square.
* * * *
Three mercenaries splashed through the lane behind Hildegarde’s dwelling in the southwest quadrant, compelled by mild curiosity over the pair of large wagons parked, driverless, in the narrow street.
They dismounted and approached the wagons, shaking dripping helms and drawing their swords warily. The first soldier tossed aside the rear flap of a wagon. The short swing of an axe caved in the side of his face.
His partners cast about in alarm, raising steel in their futile defense. But the swarm of militiamen overwhelmed them with quiet speed and efficiency. In seconds the bodies were removed to a metal foundry warehouse, their horses and weapons commandeered by citizens.
Gonji strode out of concealment in an alley. He grunted a curt approval of their performance and moved to Hildegarde’s back stoop. He towed a roan stallion by the reins. Tora had been smuggled to the surface, but Garth’s stables were too dangerous to approach yet without risking the compromise of shi-kaze.
The samurai wore a leather cuirass, pauldrons and vambraces, and an old sallet with eye-slit visor designed by the famous Augsburg armoring family, the Helmschmieds. He would be momentarily unrecognizable, and that momentary delay would prove the undoing of any enemy. Wilf followed close behind him with his black gelding. He was similarly armored, albeit the young smith was topped with a cavalry Zischagge helmet of German design. Both carried their swords in their back harnesses.
The area was secured by crossbowmen and pistoliers, and men began to stream into the lane to await further orders. A company of about sixty bushi formed near the wagons, drawing weapons and armor from them as needed. The large draft horses were draped in leather armor, and Paille’s coffin-cupolas were unloaded and affixed to the tops of the wagons. They were hinged in several places with cutaway sections from which pistols and crossbows could be suddenly unleashed. The sailcloth cover was slit along the sides of the wagons, where gunloops had been cut in the plate-armored insides.
Wilf went over tactical assignments with the fighting squads while Gonji entered Hildegarde’s home.
The samurai found the Scandinavian warrioress honing a halberd on a whetstone in her kitchen. Several militia personnel were in the parlor, selecting armor and stringing bows.
Hildegarde grinned to see Gonji.
“Well, Gonji-Gunnar, we fight well this day, isn’t it so?” She ran a finger down the vicious edge she had wrought, nodding with deadly satisfaction.
“Hai, we fight well this day or never again.” He exchanged curt greetings with the busy men in the parlor, then returned to the kitchen. He took great comfort in Hildy’s confident courage. She would lead ground troops in the important function of dividing and harassing Klann’s horsemen, throwing them into disarray and establishing killing grounds in Vedun’s mazes of ancient walled alleys and byways.
“Come here, Gonji-Gunnar,” she said, laying aside the halberd.
The samurai moved toward her with curiosity. She placed her arms around his neck and kissed him, long and passionately, then stepped back, tossing her head and laughing at his discomfiture.
Gonji affected annoyance, unsure of how to act in his complete surprise. After first ascertaining that none of the others had seen, he rubbed his chin and scowled unconvincingly.
“Stand fast there,” he said. “Is that any way to treat your superior?” He tussled with the ephemeral flaring of lust that briefly unsettled his thoughts. It was an emotion out of place, out of time, in their present circumstances. Yet not altogether regrettable.
Hildegarde laughed again to see his expression. “You feel real warm, Gonji-Gunnar,” she said softly, taking up the weapon again. “Some of them, they say you be cold. They be wrong, no?”
Gonji met her smoldering eyes for an instant. “Let’s see how warm we can all be when this is over,” he said, the fatalism he felt mocking his words even as he spoke them.
He cleared his throat and stepped to the parlor arch.
“Let’s go,” he said.
They followed him out solemnly into the rain of the rear court, where the militia squads assembled. Wilf strutted before them, hands behind his back, declaiming in a command voice that caused Gonji to smile discreetly.
“—a lot of different kinds of armor and dress here,” Wilf was saying. “Take a look around you. Know your fellows. Particularly, you archers. We don’t want you dropping your neighbors—” Nervous chuckling spread through the attentive band.
Gerhard and his archers moved up to Gonji. Rain rattled on Karl’s dark steel hat, which was of the design favored by the English longbowmen. He kept tugging and adjusting his black glove and archer’s ring as he approached Gonji. The hunter tilted his face up to the shedding sky.
“Not good,” he said grimly. He still seemed to bear Gonji ill will over Lottie’s embarrassment.
“Mmm. That can’t be helped,” the samurai replied. “But it aids us more than it hinders. You’d better ready your bows.”
The archers removed their strings from dry pockets and helped one another string their bows.
Gonji stood front and center and addressed the anxious company.
“This is it now. Be strong. Act on command only, but without hesitation. We take the city back, or we clear out. Remember—mushin no shin—mind of no mind. Don’t think, don’t plan with too much deliberation. Let your arms practice guide you in battle. Let’s move—and may your God and all good kami be with us this day.”
The nearby foundry warehouse doors sprang open, cavalry troops bounding out and forming in a double column. Gonji and Wilf mounted and joined with the other leaders in heading up their bands.
Gonji smiled tautly and saluted to Garth, who sat glumly astride his destrier, a broadsword on his back and a battle-axe slung beside his saddle. The smith wore his old Klann armor, sans the coat-of-arms surcoat. He raised a hand and nodded to Gonji. Lorenz sat behind him, armed with pistol and rapier, bowing shallowly to Gonji, eyes alight with anticipation.
Two more armored wagons arrived. Pistoliers and bowmen took up their places with them. Hildegarde set off with her infantry column at an easy jog. Messengers sped to other quarters of the city, where militiamen awaited the order to attack.
“Shi-kaze,” Gonji said, low and fiery, determination in his searing gaze.
The warrior parties split and clattered off toward their combat assignments. Within minutes the sounds of gunfire and the clash of steel could be heard from various points in the city.
* * * *
The postern’s replacement detachment—three Austrian mercenaries—arrived at the gate and dismounted. They moved quickly under the shelter of the gatehouse and shook their wet helms and cloaks. The relieved soldiers emerged to greet them. There ensued an exchange of rapid chatter.
Something was afoot in the city. The relief party had noticed an inordinate amount of sudde
n activity. Shops were closing throughout Vedun. People hurried about suspiciously. Many wagons rumbled through the lanes at something more than accepted safe speeds. And the king was coming, scuttlebutt said.
The relieved men were advised to first check into the unusually rushed traffic at the chapel down the street, then report to Julian and Sianno.
They were glancing in the direction of the overflow crowd of women and youngsters lining the chapel steps when the body of the Llorm rampart sentry crashed to the cobblestones not twenty yards from them.
The six drew weapons and looked to the crenellated walls as they ran to the downed sentry. A hundred yards off, a second Llorm crossbowman dropped to the allure, skewered by bowshot from an unseen sniper.
The next thing they saw was Wilf’s form hurtling at them from the rostrum at the square nearby, teeth clenched, naked sword blade brandished behind him. Paolo Sauvini and Aldo Monetto followed on his heels.
The mercenaries spread out to engage the bushi, and two of them were struck dead from the rear, Gonji’s katana lashing through light armor with deadly surety. The remaining four split into pairs, roaring their defiance at the rebels.
Wilf yowled a bloodcurdling kiyai and snapped his sword through a brief snatch of flashy kata that momentarily bewildered his opponents. Then he leapt between them, beating their blades aside, mortally wounding them both in the space of a heartbeat. One mercenary’s arm, severed betwixt wrist and elbow, lay at his feet.
Wilf breathed through flaring nostrils like an overwrought racehorse, more from the adrenal rush than the exertion, and looked to Gonji.
But the samurai was already moving away from his slain enemies toward the square, where gunfire could be heard in the Ministry building, and the screams of children at the chapel.
“Well, you sure didn’t need my help,” Monetto said at Wilf’s ear. The biller then bounded to the great wheel that cranked the open portcullis down. “Somebody haul up the drawbridge,” he called over his shoulder.