Gonji: Red Blade from the East (33 page)

As long as their faith can be shaken by the sight of a giant, I shall have the upper hand of them.

With a parting scream Mord lofted the wyvern into the heights at a dizzying speed and returned with it to the castle.

* * * *

Sweating profusely, at last allowing the trembling that had coiled up in his gut to vent itself in a whooshing exhale, Gonji watched the monster soar off into the north. His heart thudded in his ears, and his breath came in relieved hitches. He had been prepared to die—it was part of his earliest training—but...not like that. Had he not been able to make it into the culvert in time, the
seppuku
blade would have been plunged into his belly.

How had it managed to take him unawares like that? And why had it withheld its lethal sputum and filth? Had it been called away at the last instant to some other foul duty? And what had been different about it?

The eyes. That was it. Earlier they had been red, glowing with an inner fire. This time they were a glimmering obsidian, like black diamond. And their darting and scanning—indeed, the whole movement of the beast’s head—had had an intelligent cast. The eyes had been
human.

Gonji heard horses cantering within a block of his position. He had to get to safety. The stables were not far now. He spat into the foul-smelling culvert, glad that he hadn’t become part of its corruption, and dashed off. He must live to fight another day, to deal again with the creature that so filled him with shameful fear.

* * * *

Gonji squatted in the hayloft of Garth’s barn, rubbing his body against the entrenched chill. Stiffness had followed close on the heels of inactivity. Pungent aromas of manure and damp rot puckered his features. Horses nickered in the stalls below. He could make out Tora’s head in one of the farther stalls, and the good steed’s presence was some small comfort.

He had had time to think, and the banshee of guilt had set to wailing over his shoulder. It had not been a good foray, to say the least. He had accomplished nothing and had caused the city grave trouble, judging by the sounds he had heard in his flight. Even now his presence here threatened the safety of the Gundersens, who had taken in a lonely traveler out of decency and good fellowship. But for the present there was nowhere else to go.

Great kami, what a mess.
Got to get my story together, have an alibi for my whereabouts, see what nastiness I’ve spawned. What will Wilf and Strom say about my big theatrical departure, eh? Not too bright, Gonji-san. What the hell will I—

Voices outside the double barn doors. Arguing. The doors grated ajar—

“Keine Rede mehr!
No more talk!” It was Wilf, followed closely by Strom.

“Wilfred,
dummkopf
, don’t be crazy! Get back in the house and wait for Papa, like he said.”

Wilf began saddling a horse. “I can’t stand it any longer. You heard the shots. I’ve got to see what’s happening. They may need help.”

“But Wilf, what the hell can you do? Best just to wait,
nicht wahr
? Isn’t it?”

Wilf sneered. “I can do plenty.” He held up Gonji’s spare
katana.

“This isn’t like dueling Papa with sticks. They have guns.”

“Your father’s out there, idiot. Maybe shot by now. I’ve got to do something. I’ve always wanted to be a soldier, to be as good a soldier as he was. Maybe now’s the time to start.” Wilf tied off the saddle traces.

“
All-recht
, dumb ass,” Strom taunted, his lisp becoming more pronounced as his excitement increased. “Go on, get killed—you deserve it! I hope the flying dragon gobbles you down like a fish!”

Gonji chuckled to himself and was about to intervene when the search party arrived.

“You, in there! Come out. Who lives in this shop?”

Wilf and Strom stared at each other, paling noticeably even in the gray haze of the barn. Wilf’s bravado melted away. They moved reluctantly out into the street, leaving the door ajar behind them.

In the loft Gonji cursed the ill fortune he had brought on them all. He unsheathed the Sagami and dropped to the ground with a grunt, already aching muscles protesting the imminent return to action.

* * * *

Strom sat quietly on a stool, one leg drawn up under him. Wilf stood facing the three Llorm dragoons. At the behest of the leader one soldier began to snoop around the shop. They looked formidable standing in the room’s close quarters, their nicked and dusty armor evincing action. Wilf’s eyes kept straying to the eerie crest of Klann each man wore prominently, with its rampant beast of fable and device of seven interlocked circles. The two subordinates had face-protecting—and concealing—buffes now affixed to the Llorm burgonet helms. They looked like two huge menacing insects. The leader’s burgonet was open and bore an insignia of rank.

He removed the helm and tucked it under an arm. He was fiftyish, graying, with strong, square features; a shade shorter than Wilf, but with a powerful upper body and short, thick arms.

“So you were planning to go off and protect your father,” he said in German. “Very loyal son, you are. I had a son once,” he added, irrelevantly to Wilf, who had no idea how to take the man.

“I’m Captain Sianno, commander of the regulars garrisoned here, and if one wished to revolt, I suppose he could do no better than to start by killing
me
.”

Strom’s breath caught in his throat. Wilf blanched.

“Are you going to use that on me?” Sianno asked, nodding to the
katana.

A pause.
“Nein,”
Wilf said in a cracked voice. And he was abruptly ashamed of his fear. But it was a fact and, as was his fashion, he accepted it. He laid the sword on the table.

“Good,” Sianno said, his tone not without compassion.

“But if I found you harmed my father,” Wilf said levelly, eager to salvage pride, “I’d have to kill you with it.”

Their eyes locked. The soldier behind Sianno tensed.

“Also good,” Sianno said, a thin smile curving his lips.

The cries of children could be heard in the rear of the shop. The third Llorm had opened the cellar door in the larder in which the refugees were secreted.

“Families of the castle troops—we’ve given them sanctuary,” Wilf said anxiously.

Sianno nodded. “Close the door and let them sleep, Xanthus. We have no desire to harm children. For that matter, we have no desire to harm anyone. I must order you to remain indoors tonight. Beginning tomorrow there’ll be a new curfew in effect—no one permitted out of doors once the lamps are extinguished. Now I must search your grounds—oh—” He had turned to go but stopped in his tracks. “You can enhance my high opinion of you by answering me truthfully: Have you any long-range weapons in your possession? Firearms or bows?”

Wilf indicated the back of the house with a thumb. “My hunting bow. Why?”

“Such weapons are forbidden now in Vedun. They’re to be confiscated. Would you care to—”

“I’ll get it,” Strom blurted, leaping to the task.

“Danke,”
Sianno said.

“Captain,” Wilf called to his departing back, “what about the captives at the castle? Will they be returned?”

Sianno paused, then said over his shoulder, “That’s not my province.” Then as he moved off, he added, “I’m sorry.”

Wilf stood under the canopy to watch them go about their work. Strom brought them the bow. There were three more Llorm, one bearing a torch. In the flickering yellow glow Wilf saw two figures approach at a trot—Garth and Lorenz. Seeing his father and brother arriving home safely, Wilf was flooded with relief. Then, overcome by an immense weight of emotion and fatigue, he slumped onto a chair and sullenly regarded the
katana
, his words of drunken bravado dancing mockingly in his head.

* * * *

Sianno and Garth searched each other’s faces a long space. The rest held their ground expectantly.

“Do I know you?” Sianno queried almost mischievously.

“I think not,” Garth replied, a curious hostile tic in his eye. “I don’t know you, Captain.”

“Time does have a way of obscuring memories,
nicht wahr
?”

“After a long time one begins to see recognition in every face.”

Sianno bowed shallowly in agreement.

“Ja,”
Lorenz piped in, taking his father by the shoulders, “and after a long enough time one becomes old and tired. And right now my father is both. So if the commander has no further use for us—?”

“You may retire as soon as we’ve completed our search.”

“This is my house,” Garth said gruffly. “There, my stables; there, my storage shed. I have nothing to hide from you. Search them as you please.”

Lorenz’s eyes narrowed at his father’s petulant tone. Rare for him. The Llorm garrison commander stared at Garth with a look that defied analysis, as if he were calculating. He arrived at a satisfactory sum. With another bow to Garth he waved his men to their mounts.

“I think our business is finished here,” he said in a soft voice. “Good night to you, sirs.” And with that he rejoined his command.

“Well,” Lorenz observed as they spurred off, “the soldier is a gentleman. That’s a welcome sign we’ll have to convey to the warmongers in the council.”

But Garth offered no comment.

* * * *

As usual Anna Vargo had considered it her duty to await the return of her husband Milorad from the council meeting. Milorad had brought with him the Vargos’ beloved Flavio, about whom Anna had fluttered like a mother hen since he had become a widower three years earlier.

She wore a merry frock over her matronly plumpness. The fireplace glow reflected off the bright bandanna in her silver hair as she brought the men broth and thick chunks of bread. She made no complaint about the discomfort even such simple tasks caused her since the arthritis had taken hold in recent years. Her delight in the indulgence belied the fact that she had been a most renowned courtly lady during their years in diplomatic service to European kings.

Anna
tsked
at the dreadful tale the men brought with them: of the city’s rebellious anger, of the treatment of Baron Rorka, of the harsh questioning in the nighted streets, of two men—said to be strangers—shot dead after robbing occupation troops. She shuddered about the wyvern, expressed her dread of such vile supernatural evil as that brought by Mord, found it incredible that someone had had the nerve to shoot arrows at the creature. But all the while she kept the men’s bowls and goblets full.

“More broth, brother Flavio?”

“No-no, my dear, I’m quite full.”

“But you’re so
skinny.
...”

Anna’s constant reproach against gauntness had seen Milorad to an ample girth. His broth and bread had by now been extended to include leftover meat and cheese from the evening meal, plus a second goblet of his preferred guzzling beverage, mead.

“Is it possible that I’m wrong, Milorad?” Flavio asked with a hurt look. “Will my pacifism lead the city to destruction?”

“Of course not. It is they who are wrong. Diplomacy will always win out when both sides bargain in good faith. That, of course, is always a problem in itself, though,” Milorad qualified, slugging at his mead.

“To have succeeded all these years, to have seen an entire generation raised apart from the strife in the world at large—only to see it all dashed now—”

“It’s precisely that younger generation that’s causing much of the trouble,” Milorad judged. “Whatever became of respect, of protocol, of social propriety? Rules of good conduct simply aren’t observed anymore.”

“Do any of them—I mean the younger ones—really know what it means to kill a man? To bear the burden of guilt?”

“I think King Klann will prove quite cooperative in helping to prevent further incidents like tonight’s.”

“It’s not just Klann who worries me,” Flavio said. “This Ruman independence movement that’s been brewing in the provinces—it’s said that it will lead to war. It seems there’s no escaping the clutches of violent change, wherever one hides himself away.”

“O tempora, O mores!”
Milorad said, quoting Cicero.

“It’s becoming more and more impossible to hide, it seems,” Anna chimed in. “More wine, dear?”

Flavio nodded. “You may be right, milady. But I’ll never believe that fighting and killing can bring any but the most compromising of settlements. But, Milorad—” Flavio’s eyes became slits through which he observed a vision out of hell. “What if they choose the path of madness? What will I do if my beloved Vedun becomes a battlefield?

“And there are other things, still more terrible things, I fear but may not speak of.” He became detached, distant.

Anna had stopped pouring the wine and glanced from Flavio’s glazed stare to her husband’s worried frown. Neither had ever heard Flavio speak in such cryptic terms, and it frightened them both.