by T. C. Rypel
The streets were quieter now, much of the activity centered around the city walls and gates, as if the occupation troops were more concerned with defending against attacks from without.
Gonji made it to the stables. They seemed unattended. He crouched down the lane while a party of Llorm dragoons, fatigued and jabbering in their native tongue, watered and wiped down their own lathered steeds before pounding away on fresh mounts.
Slipping into the stables, he found Tora blanketed in a dark stall. Tendering his brief affections to his beloved Spanish chestnut stallion, he went into the house, sword bared, to retrieve his kimono, which Wilf had laundered and stored for him.
He spun, nerves crackling, when he heard his voice called.
Garth peered up at him from the cellar door.
“Garth! They said you were—”
“And so I would be,” Garth agreed, “if not for the lasting power of good fellowship. But do come down here, schnell, before we’re visited again.”
A lone oil lamp offered its forlorn orange glow in the stygian darkness. The cellar was cold and mildewed, mournful somehow. They sat on the stair, facing each other, finally—irrationally—both breaking out in short bursts of lunatic laughter to find themselves alive together in the midst of so much death. Gonji touched a finger to the dent in his sallet, and Garth chortled madly, crossing his arms over his middle. He stopped abruptly when a tear coursed his cheek. He rubbed it into his beard. The crazy moment of venting had passed.
Gonji saw the redness that rimmed the smith’s eyes.
“Garth...Garth, where is Lorenz?”
The burly smith stared thoughtfully into the dark corner, where the great chest lay. “They took him. Those mongrels Klann calls warriors. That’s not how it used to be. Not in the days of glory, when together we fought for things that seemed worthwhile...noble.”
“Arrested him?”
“They beat him—he never wanted any part of this, Gonji—”
“Then he’d be at the Ministry? With the other prisoners?”
“Of course—under detention. Where else? God, my back aches....” His peevishness had altered to distraction without the slightest transition. Now it changed again to low-keyed anger. “They...they spoke of taking him to Mord. And something Mord had done to Phlegor.”
Gonji experienced a chill at the memory of the late guild leader.
Garth panted as if in sudden panic. “Strom—gone. Lorenz—gone. Wilfred—”
“Wilf’s all-recht. I saw him not long ago. I—” He bit his tongue when he caught himself about to speak of the way he’d found Strom. It was better, he thought, not to know, at least for the moment.
“Things won’t get any better, Gonji,” Garth mused. “Julian Kel’Tekeli’s been appointed Field Commander. A young savage who delights in viciousness and hangs those he fears....”
Gonji’s eyes narrowed to see the fires that lit the smith’s vision. “Will you be lending those powerful arms to the cause again this night?”
“Aren’t there still children to free?”
Gonji stood slowly and bowed to him. “Mein freund, may we seek out one another in the next life and waste no time resuming our friendship.” They shook hands warmly.
“What will you do?” Garth inquired sympathetically.
Julian. Mord. Julian, Mord....
“Seek the satisfaction of honor, I think.” Julian and Mord. “You must tell Wilfred....” He sighed. “Tell him that when he goes after his Genya, he must search out Simon. Seek his help. Or else, do what he must do...alone.”
He turned to mount the stairs.
“You know Wilfred,” Garth said. “He’ll not settle for that.”
Gonji stopped, shoulders bunching, for a second. Then he left the cellar.
He emerged into the lane behind the shop, smelling manure and damp hay. The rain resumed and rattled maddeningly off his sallet. He carried the rolled kimono under an arm, his lips twisted with loathing.
Julian-Mord-Julian-Mord—
Hatred drove the blood in Gonji’s veins.
Whatever his skills, the voice of Master Oguni came, even the consummate warrior can be but one man. One target can be engaged at a time. Only the fool overreaches the nearer for the seductive glory of the farther....
Inky smoke roiled across the cloud-veiled, pale disc of the full moon. Several houses in the southern quarter had been set to blazing by searching troops. For what reason, Gonji could not tell. He approached the nearest, set his kimono on a sill, and peered out from the shadows.
A mercenary band splashed away at a gallop, whooping at people who watched from windows, terror in their eyes. Flames sputtered and sizzled from one small dwelling, the rain turning them to fuming smoke on contact. Three mercenaries stayed behind, dismounted, passing a wineskin back and forth. A few people lay dead in the street outside the house, among them a woman and a child.
“Come on out, you sons o’ bitches,” a soldier roared at the stricken observers, who quickly ducked inside their homes in fear of being next. “You want to fight? Come on.”
Teeth clenched, Gonji sprinted up behind the three, his katana flashing. By the time one of them had turned, the samurai was two steps from them. He tore into them with a growl. In four strokes, the three were laid low, their swords still on their hips. Only one was alive—thrashing and gasping, clutching at his own bubbling blood, Gonji’s slash having fulfilled its intention.
“You bastard!” the man cried, whimpering, the hiss of the flames drowning him out. “I can’t move my legs. You yellow bastard!”
“Keep your voice down,” Gonji said, standing over him. He glanced about, a terrible calm in his manner. He heard his name whispered from nearby shutters.
“Where is Julian?”
“Julian’ll cut your guts out!”
“Where is he?”
“Will you—will you let me live, if—if I tell you?” Choking on sobs now, his manner shifting.
“Nein.”
The brigand emitted a whimper. “The Provender,” he whined. “He’ll cut your goddamn—!” He raised his pistol, though it was empty. A second later, Gonji’s blade silenced his last cry. A muffled scream came from one of the houses.
Then a gloomy stillness blanketed Vedun, the heavens withholding their outpouring for endless seconds. Only the crackle of the flames could be heard in its wake. When it passed, a sudden violent wind shook the city, tearing at Gonji’s clothing and light armor, flipping his strapped sallet back onto his neck. The rain sliced across Vedun’s plateau in buffeting sheets.
By the time Gonji had retrieved his kimono, the flames in the house had been extinguished.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hour of the Boar
Gonji left word with militiamen at the slaughterhouse that he could be found at the home of their late boss and training leader, Roric Amsgard.
He found Amsgard’s widow in bitter mourning, several friends and bushi making a strained endeavor at comforting her. She seemed disconsolate, clutching her younger children about her for a raft of security. The oldest Amsgard son, of whom Roric would have been justly proud, diverted his siblings and doted on his mother as best he could. The stoical manner in which the lad bore up under the loss cut Gonji to the heart.
The samurai made a somber effort at offering his condolences, for Roric had been a close friend and a fine comrade. The widow appeared to bear him no rancor.
Michael and Lydia arrived soon after receiving word of Gonji’s whereabouts. They were accompanied by Wilfred Gundersen and Anton the Gray knight. They were dripping and chilled, apprehensive of the next action. But Wilf gratefully received Gonji’s news of his father’s escape from the hangman’s noose.
“Thank God for this rain,” Anton said.
“Ja,” Wilf concurred, “we weren’t even stopped.”
“Well,” Michael said glumly, “you’re still the military commander. They’re awaiting your further orders.”
Gonji nodded, distracted but warmed by their c
ontinued faith in him. “I think you’d best keep hold of the mantle of leadership. You’re the better administrator and coordinator. I’ve another duty now. Simon and I must set the works in motion. It’s now or never.”
Wilf cocked an eyebrow suspiciously to hear his words. “I’m going to fight alongside you, right?”
“For the moment, I’ve another duty for you.”
“Wait a minute—”
“Am I not your superior?” Gonji snapped. The young smith backed down a bit, anxiety flickering in his dark eyes. He twisted at the hilt of Spine-cleaver. Gonji went on more sensitively. “You’re my most trusted friend and warrior, Wilf. My second-in-command. It’s no good for us to be caught together, you understand that? Later...later we’ll link up with our commands. For now, you’re in charge of the entire western half of the city. I wouldn’t have anyone else. I want to know that when those wagons are moving, they’ll make it through the west gate.”
Wilf pondered the business, unconvinced, while Gonji sent messengers after Jacob Neriah and, to everyone’s curiosity, an obscure archer from the militia, the father of the little girl Tiva.
He turned to Wilf again, gestured for him and the others to gather in an antechamber. Cups of water, mead and ale were passed among them, and Gonji spoke in a low voice.
“Wilfred, you must join your father at the stables and be ready to liberate both the horses and the wagons from across the yard. There’s no minimizing the peril of your task. The west gate is crawling with troops, and the garrison at the old granary in the southwest corner will have to be destroyed—or at least neutralized, somehow—before the innocents can move. We’ve purposely left the western sectors for the last movement. They’re the closest to the gate. Those who can will be moved through Tralayn’s house into the catacombs. A solid defensive posture will have to be maintained, of course. I’ll leave it to you to mount your parties and decide how to do it—so sorry.” He smiled wanly, exhaling and slumping into a chair, where he sat with hands on knees. “Those who can’t get to Tralayn’s will have to join the wagon caravan while it is still in the city. And I’m afraid they’ll have much company—”
“Too much,” Anton grumbled.
“Hai, I’ve been to the catacombs.” He shook his head. “Spread the word that the bushi should be ready to move, but only on order. Until then they must stay indoors. That goes for everyone, Miko-san. Select your sector-alert people from those on hand here. Pockets of bushi in hiding will have to pursue the tactical plans as they come, whatever their number and armament. We can only wish we knew better our remaining strength, but....” He lifted his palms in helpless resignation.
“We’ve still got the majority of our fighting men, I believe,” Michael declared.
Gonji nodded. “It’s chaotic, but it will have to do. And listen—Simon will stalk the city tonight. I have no idea what he’ll do...or even in what form he’ll appear—”
Lydia gasped and crossed herself in the doorway.
“—but the people must not fear him when they’ve received the order to move. Everything depends on that. No time for faint hearts or stalling.” Gonji rambled on with the fragmented plan, trying to touch on all that troubled him. Before long it had become rather like a last will and testament.
Noticing Wilf’s look, the samurai stepped up to him. “You have your orders. Fight well, my friend.”
The young smith frowned, mouth working as if he would speak. But he only took Gonji’s hand firmly. Then they bowed deeply to each other, and Wilf departed, a bit ashen in his fear of the samurai’s ominous attitude, but for once uncomplaining.
The others followed Wilf out with words and gestures of prayer and well-wishing, until only Anton remained with Gonji.
The knight cleared his throat and affected a bluff posturing. “You know I, uh—I didn’t like you at first,” he said with a seasoned warrior’s firm gaze. “Not sure I do yet. But I know the cost of doing what you do. For people who can’t understand your ways. That’s...sometimes the soldier’s lot when he fights far from home, ain’t it?” He sniffed self-consciously and flexed his shoulders. “Shit, I’m no good at words.”
He made as if to leave, but Gonji halted him and bowed.
“It’s a great comfort to side with such as you, Anton, whatever our differences.” They shared a smile, the nervous atmosphere dispelled. Gonji espied the bandage that wrapped Anton’s scalp wound. “That bald head of yours makes a good target, neh?”
“There’ll be hell to pay for this, I’ll tell you.”
They both chuckled, and the knight joined a group of militiamen selecting and honing weapons. Gonji called for a ewer and basin. He closed the door and stripped himself, then began laving ceremoniously in preparation for what must come. Reflections of his life came to him as he pursued the ritual.
When the itinerant merchant Jacob Neriah and Tiva’s father had both arrived, the Benedettos brought them into the tight chamber, looking on with curiosity. Through the doorway, Gonji could see into the Amsgards’ parlor. Roric’s widow seemed trancelike, catatonic. An elderly man knelt before her, speaking and motioning with measured calm and kindness. Beside her a woman wept and plied the beads of her rosary.
Gonji bowed to the two men. Jacob stood shaking, eyes shut. Tiva’s father, a stern-visaged man named Vaclav, gazed at Gonji with smoldering distrust.
“Jacob, I want you two to descend to the catacombs, and when the signal is given, you will depart in advance of the evacuees...to prepare a refuge for them in Austria. I heard from my master, Flavio, that you’re a man of some status in that land—?”
Jacob nodded but seemed perplexed. “Yes, yes, I think I can arrange that. I own property there, and have many friends in Vienna, but I—”
“I just think a delegation should precede the main body, that’s all,” Gonji said defensively, staving off their questions.
“What about my daughter?” Vaclav asked.
“Tiva goes with you, of course.”
The archer looked surprised. “How do you know her name?”
Gonji turned and began fussing with his weapons. “I became acquainted with Eduardo and his little band of urchins. She’s a wonderful child. Now be off with you, both of you, I’ve no more time to bandy words. And have a care.”
With a look to each other, they excused themselves, Neriah offering up a prayer to the God of all for their deliverance and for revenge on the marauders who had so ravaged the province.
Gonji sent a puzzled man to move his armor to the Gundersens’, and before the door closed behind him, he caught a glimpse of Lydia in the parlor, a curious smile perking her lips.
He laid his weapons on a mat and knelt before them in tunic and damp breeches, barefoot, his topknot precisely tied, the hachi-maki about his brow. He meditated for a brief while. Bending forward, he reverently drew the Sagami, clucked and exhaled, a dismal frown on his face to see again the nick Simon Sardonis had made in its graceful sleekness.
The door cracked open, and he heard the sibilant rush of air that passed Lydia’s lips.
“No-no, do come in,” he said, rising and replacing the Sagami. “I...wanted to speak with you anyway.”
She entered and closed the door, lowering her eyes demurely. “That was very kind and thoughtful of you,” she said in a voice just above a whisper. “I heard that you sent little Tiva away, with her father.”
Gonji grunted. “Someone had to smooth the way for the refugees.” Seeing that she was unconvinced, he abandoned the deception. “Some people would call it favoritism, neh?”
“Mmm. Too bad we can’t move all the children off like that. But I suppose there isn’t time...?”
“No time and no more individual escorts to spare—by the way, congratulations on the big belly,” he said. “I never thought to tell you before.”
She smiled and sat on a stack of packed belongings the Amsgards had prepared for the evacuation. “Gracias. Signore, answer me something, please. I know that what we’re doing now
is beyond questioning. We must leave Vedun for now, but...was I not right all along? That none of this should have been allowed to happen?”
Gonji peered at her through slitted eyes. He bent over, hands on his thighs, and licked his dry lips.
“Perhaps,” he allowed. “Immature men, blustering and posturing to prove their toughness, neh?” He smiled crookedly, and she laughed curtly to have him recall her own angry words for her. They had been spoken so long ago, it seemed.
“The city is ruined,” she reflected. “What else can happen now? You can add my prayers to those of the others who hope you’ve taught them well. Do you know what I think? I think you’re basically a good man. An educated, refined man who simply tries too forcefully to win the love and admiration of others. And the results sometimes are not what you would wish. Violence, distrust—”
“If you’ll pardon me, gomen nasai,” he interrupted sourly, “let’s skip the journey through my soul until another time, eh? You’ve rather missed the mark anyway.” He chafed at having a nerve exposed, but the irritation swiftly passed. She looked serenely lovely, and in the expectation of what would soon come to pass, he determined abruptly to acknowledge what was in his heart.
“You know I, uh—” He scratched the stubble along his jaw as he groped about the garden of unseemly words.
“Please,” she said, rising and moving near, “please don’t.” Her eyes were soft and liquid, aglow like the morning sky after first frost. Full of pleading. “I know the words you would say to me, but saying them would only spoil them. Keep them in your heart,” she whispered.
She reached up and held his face between her hands. Kissing his cheek lightly, she turned and whisked herself from the room with a rustle of skirts. The door closed soundlessly, leaving Gonji alone, flushed and bewildered.
How do you like that? he thought in embarrassment. Damn it all, woman! How dare she presume to know my feelings so well! Have I been so careless, Spirits of my Fathers, even with all my pains? I’m about to join my ancestors for reasons I’m not even sure of.... I try to pledge my love to a woman, and before I can even say the words, she sends me off to my death with a pat on the ass like you would a horse!