Gonji: Red Blade from the East (34 page)

* * * *

They spoke at a whisper, Garth and Lorenz filling in the younger Gundersens on the council’s resolutions.

“And remember, please,” Garth advised with downcast eyes, “not a word of this to Gonji or any other stranger.” He waited until he had extracted from Wilf a curt nod of acquiescence.

“Sleep now, I think, is what we all need. I’ve had enough of this sorry day. I believe the stable doors were left open. I’m going out to check on the horses.”

As he moved to the door Garth noticed the heavy burden his middle son bore. Wilfred sat staring bleakly, his chin on his fists, and Garth’s heart went out to him. He knew well what his son was experiencing: Deference to a superior power was so easily mistaken for cowardice.

He lay a hand on Wilfred’s shoulder. “Passing sound wisdom, my son.”

It was as close to a moment of tenderness between them as they had known in a long time.

Garth entered the stables and passed each stall, glancing at the animals nickering and pawing within. When he reached the stall that housed Tora, he found the samurai’s steed saddled. He froze.

“I’m sorry, my friend,” came Gonji’s voice from the impenetrable blackness in a corner. Gonji moved into view, and Garth’s eyebrows raised to see his condition.

The samurai was grime-streaked and sweat-matted. His eyes blinked their red-veined need for sleep. His tunic was torn in spots and revealed the cuts and abrasions underneath.

“What have you done, friend?” Garth asked apprehensively.

“Nothing that could be avoided. I can only ask you to understand, for the present, and not betray this confidence.” He had briefly considered appending a threat, decided that it was unwise and unnecessary. “Tomorrow,” he added instead, “tomorrow when we’re rested we’ll deal with what I’ve done,
all-recht
?”

Garth nodded, smiled in spite of his concern, and shook his head at his curious guest. He indicated the smith shop and the warm cot that awaited Gonji within, but the weary warrior declined, feeling safer sleeping near his horse this night. They unsaddled Tora but kept the saddle near the stall.

When Garth had gone Gonji lay down with a sigh of exhaustion on a makeshift bed of straw in an unoccupied stall.
Well, Gonji-san
, he thought wryly,
here you are living
the life of luxury again
. As he shut his eyes the needling warning came that he was typically taking too many people into his confidence again. That almost always meant trouble.

But he presently arrested all thought in favor of the sleep he needed more.

* * * *

Baron Rorka having been removed to the secret place, Tralayn the prophetess sat alone in the old house near the ancient wall in the city’s southwestern quadrant, warming herself before the blazing hearth in the early morning hours.

She sat on the floor in the lambent glow, scrolls and antiquated books spread before her. Now and again she would catch in the periphery of her vision the glint of firelight reflected off the great crossed weapons that hung on the wall above the mantel, suspended by thick spikes: the shuddersome broadsword and battle-axe that were longer than a man is tall and, in places, as wide as some men’s shoulders.

At the darkest hour Tralayn read from the prophets, her lips moving silently. She ceased when she felt the presence of the tall shadow that hulked above her a moment and then squatted down out of range of the fireglow.

“So you’ve come.”

“As I said I would.”

She reached for one of the scrolls. “Where did we leave off last time?”

“No Scripture tonight,” came the voice, “or any other night henceforth. I am finished here.”

“Indeed? And you know what has passed here, yet you won’t stay to aid those who’ve sheltered you, learned to love you this past year despite their early misgivings?”

“With rare exception what you call love is merely awe. And as for those misgivings you speak of, they still exist, if thinly masked. By virtue of these things I find the city wanting, and I owe it no special loyalty.”

Tralayn laughed gently. “Haughty, vindictive words. And delivered with a rare theatricality for you—bravo! But your voice trembles at their utterance. I think guilt gnaws your heart.”

“You dare much, soothsayer. What do you know of my heart, or my torment? What do I owe the world of men, who hate and fear me?”

“They fear with good reason, but they needn’t hate you.”

There was an impatient stirring behind her.

“I’m tired of this word bandying—”

“Then you’ll let them die because of your indifference?” she accused.

“Indifference? I choose to call it compunction against meddling where no good can come of it.”

“Now
you’re
bandying words. Whatever you call it, it amounts to disdaining the Christian principles you espouse.”

“Christian principles? I’m amazed at you, madwoman. Bloodlust and slaughter are hardly Christian—”

“That will surely come, even in your absence. Mord will see to that. Your aid during the last moon
might
have prevented it. Yes, I call that indifference of a most culpable sort. And yet your worst sin is this unwholesome, single-minded desire for vengeance against the demon Grimmolech. God has allowed you to suffer the curse of this awful power so that you might be a balance against the assaults of evil on mankind.”

“Then why has He never spoken to me?”

“He has spoken to
me
, as I have told you, and you resist His will. Did He not say to eschew the Night of Chains?”

“So
you
said. Yet I can’t help feeling that I’m being used as the instrument of a fanatic.”

There was a lengthy, uncomfortable silence, finally broken by Tralayn. “I told you of the dream long before this invasion. And I don’t appreciate that word—
fanatic
.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

“Not the insult—that I laugh off. But the implication. I hardly think it applies in the struggle against evil. But no matter—so you’re leaving now, or
think
you are?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I’ve had another dream about you, a dream that saddens me. For you
and
for Vedun. For in this dream you enter the battle against Mord too late...and for the wrong reason.”

“Dream all you like, but ask God to leave me out of your visions. Why doesn’t He speak to
me
?
He
allowed this curse.” The figure rose. “I’m leaving this place. The Scripture study with you has brought more knowledge of God’s love but still no reason for His lack of mercy.”

“As usual you ignore the truth of suffering which I’ve striven to teach you. We all bear the curse of imperfect life—”

“Don’t speak to me of universal suffering again!” he shouted. “Not until one other man who wishes only to live as other men live bears my curse.
Prays
for it to be lifted as I have.
Faces
that mocking wall of silence God inscribes about him.
Then
we’ll talk of universal suffering.”

And he turned to leave.

“Simon,” Tralayn said, “if you’re leaving, will you not take the great weapons?”

He paused in the shadows at the doorway. “They’re not mine. But you can tell me one thing before I go: Who was the soldier who killed young Mark?”

“No one knows for sure. And it is unwise to speculate.”

“No matter. Michael has told me.”

And with that he was gone, leaving Tralayn to gaze into the depths of the cheerless flames.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Gonji awoke customarily early, feeling unrested, surly, starved, foully rank, and incredibly sore. There was no longer any distinction between his own aroma and that of the stable, and during the night, it seemed, satyrs had performed a Bacchanalian revelry atop his reclining form.

He groaned and climbed down from the loft via the ladder, foregoing the valor of an early morning leap.

Tora nickered a contented greeting as he passed the stall.

“Up yours, horse.”

He ambled outside stiffly, bringing his discomfort under control. His swords were left in the stable. No sense risking any trouble until he espied the local situation. His first thought was of the wyvern, but only birds shot the blinding glare and the air lay still and warm. No soldiers were about.

The smith shop was a hotbed of activity under a blue-white morning sky that promised a withering day. Garth moved amid the noisy refugee party, helping the women prepare breakfast. Children squealed merrily underfoot, having forgotten the fears of the night.

Three men sat around Garth’s dining table, pushing down their meal and speaking in somber voices. When Gonji strode inside, they hushed up, cleared their plates, and hurried outside. Gonji growled a mild insult and shook his head, then went looking for the ewer and basin. Found them and proceeded to wash. He could hear Wilf snoring sonorously in his cupboard bedchamber.

The cooking aromas drew him outside. From the forge came the tantalizing scent of sizzling salted bacon. A dour-looking breadmaid festooned with baskets left fresh biscuits and wheat bread.

Gonji ignored the townies’ mixed indifference and hostility, bowed to Garth, and, from a pleasant refugee woman, received a platter of bacon and biscuits sopped in pungent grease.

“Domo arigato,”
he said, bowing and smiling at her. Garth indicated the goblets on a low oaken bench and his choice of water, wine, or ale.

“No milk?” Gonji inquired.

“The cows won’t yield this morning, so there’s a shortage,” Garth said, casting the samurai a reproving glance.

Gonji winced, selected a light red wine, and sat down cross-legged to eat near a water trough. A moment later Garth joined him, and they conversed in low tones. The smith apprised him of the city situation, told him of the curfew, the ban on long-range weapons, and Gonji received with great interest the news that two bandits had been caught and shot during the disturbance last night. They were apparently being blamed for the wild action, although Flavio and other leaders had been questioned amid suspicions and accusations of an organized revolt. Gonji didn’t pry, and Garth said nothing of the council’s resolutions.

“Did you...say anything to your sons—or anyone else—about me,” Gonji asked sheepishly, “last night?”

“I promised not to,” Garth responded. “And I know nothing of your actions. Tell them yourself.”

Gonji nodded, thanked him.

Wilf staggered out of the house, looked embarrassed when he saw them. He ate by himself in silence. Afterward he shuffled into the house and brought Gonji the
katana.
Eyes tilted earthward, he held the blade out to Gonji, who accepted it wordlessly. He bowed to him, and Wilf returned the bow stiffly and ambled away, shoulders slumped, his whole presence reeking of penitence and shame.

A merchant caravan rumbled through the west gate under mercenary escort. Before Garth hurried off to attend on it, Gonji secured the smith’s permission to free Wilf from his duties for the day so that he might show him around.

“No trouble, please,” Garth advanced uneasily.

Gonji agreed readily, then confronted Wilf. “Care to train with me this morning?”

Wilf seemed less than eager. “Well—
I—ja
, I’d like to see how you train. Only I’ve an evil spirit thundering in my head this morning. Between that and my usual morning backache, I don’t know how much good I’ll be.”

“Don’t worry,” Gonji assured, “we’ll purge your demons and give you others in their places.”

In the shallow, secluded rear court of the smith shop, Gonji put Wilf through a less rigorous version of his own loosening-up regimen. Wilf’s pain was evident on his face throughout, yet he quickly warmed to the workout and admitted the sensation of increased control over his body he felt when he had finished. Gonji performed martial-arts
kata
that caused Wilf to gape in amazement at his suppleness and grace.

“Your legs are made of rubber,” Wilf observed.

“Mmmm,” Gonji disagreed, rubbing a sore hamstring, “not this morning. I’m slipping, getting lazy.”

Gonji taught the willing young smith some simple, effective methods of breaking free of clutches and grabs. Then they sparred a bit, Gonji showing him some useful block-and-counter moves and the basics of proper kicking. Several minutes later they sat gathering their breath, enjoying a warm camaraderie.

“You know,” Wilf began slowly, “I want to apologize for last night. I’m usually not such a big-mouthed idiot. It was the wine...Genya...this invasion force....”

“Forget it—do you like to run?”