Gonji: Red Blade from the East (31 page)

* * * *

Gonji was slipping nimbly through the alleys and across the lanes on a western course when he tripped and fell headlong in a dimly starlit sewage lane. His helm bounced and scraped with a maddening echo.

“Cholera!”

Then the object that had tripped him began to move under his shins. He propped himself on an elbow and peered into the shadow-gloom. A knife gleamed in the starlight a scant instant, plunged at his belly.

“Take
that
to your king, knave! Death to all ty—achh!”

Gonji caught the knife hand and twisted, seized the slim weapon and pounced on the assassin. He drew back to strike. But the voice sounded vaguely familiar in its theatrical resonance. He held back a second, smelled the overpowering odor of cheap spirits. This assassin was well into his cups.

“Freedom for all or none are free!” the drunk bellowed in French. And then Gonji’s short straight punch knocked his flagging sensibilities into a rear compartment for the night. Almost immediately the drunk began snoring.

“Sleep freely then.”

Gonji knelt in the shadows awhile, putting himself back together and listening for soldiers. No threatening sounds nearby. The western end seemed relatively placid. The nip of the wind spiraling down from the mountains had a cleansing, invigorating effect on him. He began to believe he would make it home free.
Home?
came the wry voice.
What is home to you?

This lane paralleled a deep culvert cut through the width of the city and connected to all the shallower culverts. It was walled for safety and bridged at many points for traveling convenience. Its depths seemed a safe place to jettison the sallet and cuirass he no longer needed.

He flung them over, saw them splash and become mired in the filthy muck with the rest of the trench offal, to be washed out by the river when the sluice gates were next opened. He snorted at the stench.

From behind him there came a scraping and a low hiss. A warm, foul wash of wind followed, and he turned to see the wyvern unfurl its membranous wings and rise up from a rooftop to hover over him.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Exuberant voices rang in the cavern. All rose in shock at the apparition. Some craned their necks and jockeyed for a better view of the injured baron, while others dropped to their knees and muttered prayers of thanks. The men nearest the worn stairway rushed forward to aid the struggling retainer. Rorka was thus guided to a seat before the mildewed wall facing the gathering. As they lowered him he winced and gritted his teeth. Milorad brought a bundle of cloaks, and these were arranged around Rorka in a nervous effort at comfort. The old baron waved back their indulgent hands, exhaled deeply. His gaze passed over the gallery of anxious faces.

Flavio gripped his lapels with white-knuckled fists. “Alive—praise God!—you’re alive, Lord Baron! How did you escape the castle?”

Rorka’s parched throat grated in reply. “Tralayn—the good Tralayn.”

Boris padded up with a goblet of wine, which Rorka accepted gratefully. He drank, hawked and spat, continued.

“Good people,” he began haltingly, “my friends, I have failed your charge. Failed miserably. I’ve been an old fool.”

The Lord Protector’s eyes scanned the floor, but the words he sought were not etched in the clammy stone.

What could he tell them? Of the horrors he had seen? That he was almost glad to be freed of the burden of responsibility?
Ah, it’s passed
from me now.
And what matter? I’m alive. And shouldn’t even a baron be allowed to retire to private life? Always the
noblesse oblige
, eh? Such pitiful faces. Always the same—save us, Lord Baron, save us!

“How could the rogues have taken the castle?”

Rorka looked up. He couldn’t be sure who the speaker had been, but he had raised a sore point. He squinted against the torchlight. An acrid, greasy film hung in the air, settled on skin and clothing, made Rorka feel like a burrowing rodent as he considered his defense. There was only the truth to tell: no flaming pitch, no red-hot iron, no quicklime was spent on the invaders; no time for any defense at all. In a twinkling they were in....

“They came in the night,” Rorka said simply at last. “Even as I feasted Klann in fraternal pity, his forces came—like a legion from hell—and...took us. The combat was brief, deadly, bloody. Most of my loyal men—God have mercy on them—most of them were slaughtered. Some while they slept. They were outnumbered—three, four-to-one.” He drew a breath over fearful murmurs and continued.

“I allowed myself to be charmed by the masked wizard’s enchantments, I fancy. Or perhaps too much wine, I cannot say. Klann and I toasted each other’s futures, and then he took measures to shape them.”

“Klann came to you in peace?” Flavio asked.

Rorka nodded. “He sought assistance as one military commander to another. He had but a few retainers, personal guards, and the wizard Mord. He asked for aid in his campaign. He said his father’s throne on some island kingdom had been usurped when he was a babe. His life was consumed by the passion to regain what is his. I told him that my duty was here in the province. But I’m afraid I misjudged him. He seems to be a most desperate man.”

Phlegor broke the breathless stillness. “You’ll pardon my insolence, Lord Baron, but you really believed this tale?” There were gasps at his impudent accusation of gullibility.

The baron leaned forward painfully. “Have none of you heard the story of the wandering king who seeks his heritage on an enchanted isle? A king who
cannot die
, whose life is renewed each time he loses it?”

The leaders of Vedun mulled over the terrifying suggestion. Voices burbled amid headshakes and questioning glances. There were sporadic gasps as the translators finished interpreting for their peers.

“Milord, you’re suggesting that Klann is this legendary king?” Milorad advanced.

“Klann the Invincible—so the folklore calls him,” said Rorka. “I cannot say, gentle friend. I don’t know what to believe at this juncture. What does it matter?”

A hush. Old Ignace, the blind and withered wagoner, wheezed noisily, his ancient lungs rattling like a barren oak played by the winter wind. He clucked at some private joke. The prophetess stood with hands clasped in front of her, eyes closed as if in meditation. Some shifted nervously. Others leaned forward as if in suspended mid-fall. Someone coughed. The smoky haze from the flambeaux made the air sultry and pungent. Eyes burned and nostrils itched.

Finally there came Phlegor’s bristling speech:

“You’ll forgive me, Milord, but this...living legend, or whatever, seems to have made you indecisive. He’s killed and kidnapped citizens of Vedun—” Phlegor’s voice rose to an angry pitch as sharp cries of agreement urged him on. “—forbidden our worship, he’s brought monsters and magicians into our city to terrorize us. I say we fight back now. Give us the word and we’ll drive them out!” The craft leader’s supporters broke into sporadic applause and shouts of “hear-hear.”

Flavio exhorted them to order. Michael, animated at last, stepped to the fore and motioned them back.

“Relax, all of you,” Michael called out. “Let’s continue this civilly or not at all.” Slowly they settled. “Who has more reason for anger than I? My brother is dead. But what will it serve to end up like Koski or Kovacs?”

“It would be well to tender more respect to the Lord Protector, Phlegor,” Milorad counseled. No one took notice, and he eased back onto his bench, shaking his head. What had become of protocol? Who cared for order in these chaotic times?

Rorka patted away his retainer’s helping hand. He shuffled up close to the city leaders.

“If you people decide to act against Klann, then you must act as one. You must prepare. You must wait for the right moment to strike. Rash action...taking up arms in a disorganized revolt....” He shook his head sadly at the proposition, saw the disgruntled looks on the faces of the militants. “What sort of weapons have you? Clubs, axes, skinning knives, a few swords and bows,
nyeh
? What will you hope to do? Surprise them? They’ll calmly turn and slit your throats for you. Scare them with your ferocity? They’ll laugh in your faces and
then
hack you to pieces. They’re a savage band. I saw that when they stormed my castle, slew my men like cattle. The regulars, those who wear the crest with the basilisk—good troops.

“Tralayn and I have a plan. First, good people, I must have your pledge of faith. I have failed miserably in your charge, but tell me now: If it is possible to defeat these plunderers—” He sighed, a heavy sound, heavy with the burden of years, the welting shackles of responsibility. “—will you have me back as your Lord Protector?”

Shouts of assent issued from the crowd. Tralayn strode forward in her jade robes and addressed them evenly, surely, confident as a nighthawk in full swoop.

“Then joined in heart we will succeed, with God’s help. Listen to me.” She snatched up a fistful of her cloak in one hand and gestured with the other as she spoke. “Many of the baron’s soldiers have been spared from the evil ones’ attack. Even now they are awaiting the right moment to strike back at the festering wickedness Mord has brought us. But, dear people, we must be well-directed, single-minded. Our strength must be at its peak.

“First, for a time, we must cooperate—on the surface. Commerce will continue. The wagons will carry their goods to the castle—” Shuffling. Discontented gurgling. “Now hear me out, all of you. Your anger will have its day.

“Give them what they want. Mount up our own winter stores. But pass this word among the men of Vedun: The baron seeks those who would fight. Men who will brave death for their right to life and worship may enter the lists to train with the baron and his soldiers in a secret place. When the Lord deigns, we will send for them.

“Now when the winter stock is sufficient, we will have it—and the non-combatants—removed to the safety of the training place. There is more to these catacombs than any of you suspects. By then we will have received...the assistance we need.” These last cryptic words were formed with a sidelong glance to Flavio. The stooped Elder stared into space, stung by the implication.

“I was able to learn,” Rorka picked up, “that Klann’s army recently suffered a severe setback at the hands of Church troops from Austria. I believe they were in flight when they entered the valley. But Mord seemed infuriated at mention of this. I could sense a tension between Klann and the magician at this point. Perhaps Mord’s enchantments faltered against the holy powers.”

“That is no doubt true,” observed the prophetess.

“Could it have been Archbishop Kiraly’s army?” Michael asked.

“Possibly,” Rorka answered. “And His Grace has been helpful to me in the past. That is why I foster a hope that he will aid us, once he learns of the trouble here.”

Tralayn shook her head. “Ahhh, he has never been concerned beyond the limits of his own territory. And he has no special love for Vedun, that is sure.”

“How can he refuse to help us now?” The baron paced as he spoke, gingerly testing his arm. “There is more at stake than territory and theological difference. In any case, I have sent two emissaries to beg his aid. On the way they will stop at Holy Word to alert the monks.” A thought occurred to him. He turned to Flavio. “Shouldn’t they have been here already for their monthly ministration?”

“The monks are late. But they would naturally be cautious seeing...things as they are.” Flavio crossed his arms over his chest. His tongue worked at the bitter taste in the dry cavern of his mouth. He was losing it. The dream. The ideal. The work of a lifetime.
But why not, eh?
My city’s greatest crisis. Here I stand, an oaf. I can do nothing but yield; yield to the young, the strong, the warrior, the railing guildsman—ah, Lord! Can it be long to pasture? Lorenzo. You should be here in my stead.
Sí
, Lorenzo and Mama Giulietta—you would know the words that fail me now. What will happen? Will the old miter come? I think no....

Flavio muttered in his native Italian.

“Tsuh?”
Rorka asked. “What?”

“I’m sorry, I was just thinking that I must agree with Tralayn. I don’t believe Archbishop Kiraly will bring military assistance here, you see.”

“Because we don’t fatten his coffers, maybe, eh?” Dobroczy said, snorting through his great hawk-nose.

“Enough,” Rorka enjoined. “Suffice it that my guards will approach him with our appeal. Therein lies hope.”

“What if they’re intercepted, Lord Baron?” Roric asked. “Klann must have patrols in the hills and the valley.”

Rorka nodded. “And I had my own patrols maneuvering in the territory. Once they saw our situation, they would know to seek help.” There was an uneasy silence. Rorka at last added, “
Someone
will get through.”

The creeping dampness of the cavern began to take effect. Several people rubbed their arms and legs in an epidemic outbreak of the shivers. The numbness seemed to seize their tongues as well, a thoughtfulness blanketing them, punctuated by occasional coughs. The old statesman Milorad saw an opportunity to bring the meeting to a quiet close. “My friend,” he said to Flavio, “as Council Elder, is this all agreeable to you?”