Gonji: A Hungering of Wolves (27 page)

He yanked his blade free, exhaled sharply. Seeing no enemy standing, Gonji cleaned his blade and strode up to the mercenary who lay in a dark, swirling pool, stanching the blood flow from his deep leg wound.

“You…” the samurai said menacingly, “you will tell me now truthfully—what have they done with the man called Simon Sardonis?”

The Farouche hireling gazed up at him. His eyes watered, gleaming with irrational luminescence. He laughed harshly in his pain. “Your friend
le loup garou?
He is one of
them
now. Back with his brothers. And
you will
see them soon enough, slant-eyed bastard! God…” He winced in agony, eyes searching out the downed forms of his companions. “…it wasn’t supposed to be like this. They promised us immortality. I won’t die. None of us will die.”

“Immortality is, so sorry, not the same as invincibility,” Gonji said, pronouncing each word slowly, the dialect difficult. “That is correct?”

“Go screw yourself,
samurai
—infidel—
monkey-warrior!
They’re going to cut your guts out!”

A moment later, only the soft patter of the dwindling rain sounded on the grounds of the late battlefield.

* * * *

The two gargoyles returned shortly after the rain ceased. They were eager to see what their human allies had done to the assailants who had caused one of their kind a painful injury with their outrageous attack. Seeing the carnage, they cautiously flapped over the killing ground, nostrils perking at the scent of fresh blood. But unable to tell humans apart, they assumed the snipers lay among the dead, and sensed no danger.

Hungry, they butchered a stray mercenary horse near the corral and slaked their fiendish thirst on its blood before indulging in the warm flesh. Too late, one of them cried out to see the form that rose from among the scattered human bodies.

Two swift, accurate shots from Gonji’s longbow left both gargoyles squirming and fluttering helplessly in the mud, leaking thick, dark life-blood. Gonji watched them for a few seconds, lips formed in a grimace of loathing for these creatures out of nightmare.

He stalked them icily, his grip sure and steady as he hacked them to pieces, consigning them to whatever foul reach of the Dark Lands such monsters occupied in death. He was revolted to see their hideous visages, their vermin-furred bodies, engorged with the horse blood that coagulated in their fanged mouths.

He had seen their kind before, in that shameful, hellish winter campaign.

No quarter. No mistakes this time.

Cleansing the Sagami again, and then laving himself, he removed and washed his
hachi-maki.
He reverently touched the “headband of resolution” to his brow before folding it away.

Then he retrieved Nichiyoobi from the barn and set out for the forest, wondering what the Farouche Clan had done with Simon. Knowing that tonight would bring the full of the moon.

The Satyr’s Moon.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“I daresay you recall,” Grimmolech said, strolling with his hands behind his back, “the time I came to you as a young woman.”

Simon’s eyelids fluttered ever so slightly at the recollection, but he made no reply, as he crouched, shackled in the foul-smelling oubliette.

“There are times I’ve regretted that incident,” the wizard from another world went on. “I did it, you see, to humble you. To make you see how altogether helpless you were against me. I had no idea it would engender such hatred in you. As nearly as I’m capable, I suppose I could say that I’m
sorry
for doing that to you, Simon, I truly wish that you would stop hating me so. It’s beneath you—
you
, so noble a creature! So elevated above these striving little men, with their ignorance, their strictured notions of morality. I want you to join me, Simon. I know that it’s difficult for you to comprehend, even as the ways of this world are sometimes beyond my grasp. But I’m asking you again to surrender to the inevitable. Join with me in a larger world. A more enlightened world. To know it is to be contemptuous of this ignorant sphere. They’ve twisted your mind with their pious beliefs! If you can believe me, I assure you that I can grant you the love—a
father’s
love—that you’ve always so desperately wanted.” He gazed deeply into Simon’s eyes. “Yes, you, whom I love as surely as the spirit of my other son, who cohabits these conflicting physical forms, along with you.”

Simon glared back. “Hell’s own love,” he replied spitefully.

“Hell, hell,
hell!
And what is that, really? Have they been able to
show
it to you? Your stubbornness is
vexing!”
Grimmolech shouted. He balled his fist as if to strike Simon, then seized the fist with his free hand and brought it down to his waist, kneading his knuckles in frustration. “You leave me no choice. I must depart for a time. I’m required elsewhere. Now your…conditioning must be left to others. Blaise will attend upon you.”

Simon’s chin lifted haughtily, as if he were unconcerned. But his teeth ground in his cheek at the thought of torture by this most despicable of the Farouche.

“I can’t say that I approve wholeheartedly of Blaise’s methods. And his constant recourse to carnal pleasure and hedonism is a testimony to his lack of discipline. I despise lack of discipline, as you do. You possess all my strengths, it seems…” He had momentarily waxed almost sentimental. The abrupt realization of it caused him to assume a stern facade again. “But Blaise achieves results. He is learning how to exercise control through terrorism. And now I must submit to his constant cajoling to place you in his hands. You’ve brought this upon yourself.” He pointed an angry finger at the ensorceled warrior, Simon. Looking up the ladder to the hatchway out of the dark rankness of the oubliette, Grimmolech shut his eyes and drew power from local energies, absorbing the faith and fear of the soldiers who watched in awe from above. Some would have called it a spell of levitation.

“ ‘He ascended into Heaven’,” Grimmolech quoted as he lofted slowly upward toward the blurred light, as his minions above gasped to see it. “I want you, Simon,” he said, smiling down benevolently. “I want you for my son. More than the son who resides within you, I fear.”

Grimmolech disappeared through the hatchway. The grating slammed shut. Simon closed his eyes to stave off tears of fury and confusion. His only solace was the anguish of the energumen when it heard its father’s words.

When evening caressed the land above with fragrant breezes and lilting shadows and the peacefulness that was ever denied him, Simon was treated to a new level of abject horror in his black underground cell.

Blaise Farouche raised the grating and leered down at him from the dungeon chamber overhead. “Greetings, brother. An eventful night lies ahead of us. Satyr’s Moon, you know—always a good one. The lunar goddess displays a special majesty on Satyr’s Moon. I daresay you’re hungry—” He feigned indulgence, as if having been remiss in his duty as host. He pulled up the rope used to lower Simon whatever they chose to feed him.

Simon felt the rejoicing of the energumen—both at the proximity of its brother Blaise and the coming full moon. He crushed it back with an exercise of will, cutting himself open painfully, again and again, on a jagged edge of the oubliette’s wall.

Then Simon began to plumb up memories of Vedun. Of the connection between tragic King Klann’s dark sorcerer Mord and Grimmolech himself. The subsequent knowledge of their common roots in the mystical isle of Akryllon, which floated between worlds. Perhaps if Simon had listened to Gonji sooner, if he’d acted more quickly on behalf of the Vedunian rebels, he might have somehow trapped Mord into helping him ensnare Grimmolech. Then none of this would have come to pass. Perhaps…

“Mon Dieu—”
He was unable to control his pitiful outburst. A convulsive shiver coursed through his entire body to see what Blaise lowered to him via the rope. Twisting down in a slow air ballet, like some helpless marionette, was the battered body of…Simon’s Uncle Andre. He seemed barely conscious.

Simon’s mind exploded in red rage over the portent of this heinous act.

“Blaise—
get him out of here!”

“Father wouldn’t like that,” Blaise replied archly. “He wanted you well fed while he was gone. These mountain men are tough, though.” Blaise dropped lithely through the hole in the ceiling.

“Andre,” Simon breathed from where he lay chained, “for God’s sake, Andre—get out of here!” He bellowed an irrational outcry. “By all that’s holy, save yourself somehow!”

“Oui,”
Blaise added tauntingly, “do that. I shan’t make a move to prevent you.” He laughed with sadistic glee.

“Ohhh, Andre…” Simon wailed, unconcerned now with his emotional display in front of his bitter enemy. “Come close, uncle,” he wept. “Swing close so that I can strangle you now…quickly…before night falls.
Why has God allowed this?”

“Why, indeed?” Blaise mocked.
“This is your world,
Simon, as my father has told you time and again. Though I can’t imagine why he would want you among us. And if you do open your eyes, I fear that you and I must square accounts.”

Andre’s swollen, bloodied lips moved. He seemed sedated, his speech slurry. “Simon, for the love of God, let me go to my grave knowing that all was not for naught. You must die here before…”

“Enough talk, old man,” Blaise ordered, slapping him sharply. “You mortals bore me so. Don’t they
bore
you, Simon?”

Simon looked at Andre earnestly. “What have they done to you?”

The mountain man coughed wetly, tried to smile. “I…can’t remember. I think, maybe, they broke my
back
…No pain, though. The joke is on them,
n’est-ce
pas?”
He began to laugh and cry at once, still in evident pain.

“This world is so boring,” Blaise went on, extracting a knife from his brocade jacket and slitting Andre’s trouser leg. Simon lurched toward him, stopped by his jangling chains.

“NO!” Simon roared.

Blaise jabbed the knife’s point into the exposed flesh of Uncle Andre’s leg, blood trickling from the wound. But the mountain man didn’t react.

“Stop it!” Simon yelled.

“Be at ease, brother,” Blaise minced. “Don’t you see? No pain, just as he said. Ahh, well…You’ve got to keep exploring for new horizons of fleshly pleasure and pain to keep from dying of boredom here, on this pathetic sphere…”

“Stop it
, you god-cursed devil!”

Simon strained at his shackles, but Blaise remained just out of reach.

“Haven’t you ever learned to revel in the heightened sensibilities of the bestial form?” Blaise asked. “The taste of blood, of warm flesh—”

“Vile monster!”

Simon caught hold of Andre’s leg, pulled his uncle out of range as Blaise stabbed at the man again, missing intentionally, merely a perverse tease. Simon clutched Andre close to him with his manacled arms as Blaise chuckled.

“How touching,” Blaise said. His upper lip curled back as he reached up and felt his patched eye. “My depth perception has suffered since you put out my eye last year. I think of you every time I clutch at some object of desire only to find my grasp fall short.” He peered up at the still bound and suspended Andre, a feral grin spreading across his face.

Blaise came around and probed upward with the knife. Simon cursed and swung his hanging uncle one way and another to forestall Blaise’s tauntingly evil intent.

But he couldn’t prevent the blade’s cruel thrusts from inflicting their intended damage.

Uncle Andre howled once, then again, his cries diminishing to mad, whimpering sobs. Simon trembled violently as he held fast to the man’s dead legs.

Blaise looked down to the slimy floor, coldly regarding the grisly result of his sadistic work. With the toe of his boot he crushed one of Andre’s splattered, gory eyeballs.

“Two eyes for an eye. Superior beings exact superior vengeance.”

“Why don’t you free me and try it with me next, you sonofabitch?” Simon said in a voice that warbled with roiling emotion.

“All in good time. But now I sense that night draws near. Enjoy your dear uncle’s company, won’t you?” He moved under the doorway, motioned for the ladder to be lowered. “I know that I shall enjoy this night to its fullest.”

* * * *

I must keep my sanity…

Deep in the night, eyes shut tight against the unspeakable deed the unleashed Beast had done, Simon fought to maintain the rationality that returned once the creature he became had sated its bloodlust.

Must stave off madness. God, grant me vengeance…if it be Your will
…

He thought cold and distant thoughts, not the least of which were memories of the samurai’s words. Things Gonji had said that had always rankled him. Suggestions that Simon might somehow be a vessel of divine retribution. The Wrath of God…

He choked on the stench. Gagged on the taste of blood, relieved somewhat when he began to vomit uncontrollably. Knowing that this wretched, human misery was all he could claim as vindication that he was not at all the monster Blaise Farouche intimated. He was a man first. An angry, forlorn, confused man.

But a man. He had his faith, and his defiance of evil.

Simon began to gnaw at the iron shackles, gouging them, scoring them over and over in the same places until rusted iron was all he could taste in his roiling belly and aching jaws. In his vented rage and madness of purpose, he finally broke off three of the Beast’s fangs, knowing that when he had need of them again, they’d be grown anew.

* * * *

When Blaise Farouche came to taunt him during the day, Simon feigned a strangely subdued persona, almost a mindless state of shock. Blaise could not raise a violent response out of him, despite every needling remark about the foul deed Simon had perpetrated as the Beast. The energumen within him knew about the half-gnawed chains and sensed that Simon was engaged in some devious ploy, but it could not free itself enough for expression, to warn Blaise. Simon’s full energy was focused on subduing it.

In the evening the one-eyed lord from another world returned to lower a basket into the oubliette. “Good eating” was all Blaise said, and still Simon refrained from responding. He sat amidst his shackles, displaying no emotion, though his heart ached to hear the puling cries of the human infant in that abominable wicker basket.

Blaise stared down curiously. “I’d have brought you the mother, too,” he added viciously, “but I’m afraid she didn’t survive the night’s activities.”

Simon’s jaws remained clamped tightly shut. Blaise presently departed, infuriated to be so ignored.

When the agonizing transformation had concluded, Simon was in command of the great bipedal wolf again, and he alternated between helplessly attempting to comfort the now wailing child and working at the chains again with his restored canine teeth. By the morning reversion back to human form, he’d worked nearly through them.

Mercenary guards came about eight bells of morning to peer down into the dark oubliette. The hoarse voice of the babe rasped out in the murky stillness. And Simon lay facedown on the dank stone floor, a length of heavy chain wrapped about his neck.

“Shit—he’s
done
it!” one man blared.

“Easy,” another advised. “He may be faking it.”

The first guard ignored it. “God damn. He finally did it, just like they said he would. I just can’t believe how long he held out.”

“What are we supposed to do now?” a third brigand asked.

“Darien—you run up and send a message to the marquis. You two go down and check him. Don’t get too close and
don’t harm the body.
Tonight, they say, their
brother
will rise from the corpse. They’ll want to know about this quickly. Get moving!”

The ladder was lowered, and the two who’d been ordered descended warily, pistols held at the ready. A polearm was lowered down, and one man caught it and gingerly prodded Simon’s body as his partner covered him. The baby’s cries were weak but keening in the tight space.

“Shut up, kid! Dammit, but that eats at your nerves!”

They rolled Simon over. His tongue hung from one corner of his mouth. They moved closer. His eyes stared up lifelessly. But only for a second.

Sinewy hands grabbed each man by one leg and spilled them both backward. One pistol barked off an errant shot; the other cast away to clatter in a dark corner. The third man shouted from above, aiming down into the shadows with his wheel-lock piece.

Simon grabbed both men by the hair, ripping their scalps to bloody ruin, and held them before him for protection. He glared into their faces as he clutched them close, though they struggled gamely against his supernatural strength, beating and clawing at him uselessly with their fists.

“This
—
is
—
my
—
world,”
the accursed warrior whispered in mocking echo of his tormentors’ frequent words. He crashed their skulls together as the pistol’s echoing report from above tore into one man’s back.

The ladder snaked back up. Simon cast the dead men aside and in two bounding steps leaped up and snared the edges of the trapdoor jamb. He was weakened by his long imprisonment—there’d been a time when he might have cleared the doorway in the leap, without levering himself at all. As he tried to push up into the dungeon above, the panicked guard threw the grating down at him. It swung on creaking hinges. He tucked his head and took the heavy blow on his shoulder, losing his grip on one side but shoving the grating back to slam down at the mercenary’s feet. The brigand drew steel, shouting to his fellows in the upper reaches of the castle.

Simon could waste no time searching out a weapon. He bounded over the trapdoor and feinted, catlike, drawing an awkward lunge that he sidestepped. He parted the guard from his blade with a lightning clutch and seized him by the front of his cuirass. A powerful overhand right smashed into the man’s nose, breaking bone, exploding blood and cartilage, driving splinters into his brain.