Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two (56 page)

Mord stood unmoving, hands pressed against his chest. A moment earlier he had felt there a burning pain and known the fear of kindled righteousness. The same fear he had felt fleetingly a month before, when Austrian troops had surged after them under the cross of Christ, the massed power of their faith arrayed against him, confounding his waning sorcery through the might of arms of those who truly believed in life-affirming Powers....

“Her—her final weak attempt on your life, sire. I—I dispersed it, fortunately, at the last instant. Forgive me for not foreseeing it sooner. It’s the flagging of certain of my powers, you—”

“It’s your
duty
to foresee such things, magician,” Klann roared. “I’ll not be threatened within my own castle again, or
your
head will roll in payment!”

“Quite so, sire,” Mord replied, bowing obsequiously. “You men,” he called down to the hall floor, “burn that witch’s body and all her effects. And tomorrow, burn her house in the city, as well.”

“Captain Kel’Tekeli!” Klann shouted down. “Come forward.” Julian marched out to the fore of the massed troops on the main hall floor.

“Sire?”

“What about that oriental rogue? Has he been arrested?”

Julian paled. “No, sire, I’m afraid not. He—”

“Slipped you again, has he?” the king taunted.

“No, milord,” Julian said defensively. “This revolt kept us busy throughout the day, and he seemed to have no part in it.”

“Is that so?” Klann remarked skeptically.

“True, my liege. He was nowhere to be found, and the rebels are saying he’s
not
their leader, that he’s fled. But I have the troops alerted. If he’s about, he’ll be apprehended. Have no fear. I shall deal with him.”

“See that you do—now what is it
you
want, courier?”

Mord listened in amusement while the Llorm messenger related the lost contact with patrols sent to check on outposts in the territory. Probably more of the oriental’s doing; or the newly freed and more vigilant peasant village. Or perhaps it was the work of the enigmatic presence, the soldier ventured tentatively—the
Deathwind
....

But then Klann was speaking Mord’s name.

“Uh—sire?”

“The charm of division—what new developments?” Klann pointed an accusing finger. “You swore there’d be results to show soon.”

Mord was a bit startled to hear the king speak so openly of it, but then he bowed and snapped his fingers.
So be it, then—a display to evoke fear and wonder....
Three of the mercenaries with him licked their dry lips and shuffled off to the chamber at the sorcerer’s left. They came out moments later with the slender wrapped figure that undulated in their tentative grasp. An unearthly moaning sound emanated from under the wrap. The crowd in the hall whispered and pointed.

Mord undid the fastenings and unwound the shroud—

“Behold!”

Screams and epithets howled from those gathered below. Women covered their eyes and turned away into comforting arms. It was a ghastly sight: A fragment of what had once been a human being, split vertically through its middle such that no scar could be seen, the flesh covering the head-to-groin severance appearing like melted tallow. It was naked. A one-armed, one-legged, half-headed monstrosity that had to be supported by the quaking mercenaries, whose breaths hitched at having to touch it.

The creature babbled hideously out of the bit of mouth left to it.

“The latest experiment, sire,” Mord announced proudly. “A living, breathing division.”

The crowd’s shock passed. Now many of them became coarsely amused at the apparition, their esteem for the sorcerer’s abilities also increasing.

“Just mind that
I
don’t end up like that,” King Klann bellowed.

“Oh, of course not, milord. This was but one puny man, while you are
many
. Soon I shall be ready to work the charm to the end you seek.”

“Well, get that...
monster
out of here,” the king ordered. He thought of something that seemed to amuse him. “Have it sent to the city as a further warning of what to expect, should they consider another uprising.”

The crowd began to disperse, shaking their heads in awe over what they had just witnessed, glad for the power of Mord that protected them from the enchantments of their enemies.

* * * *

“A drink?” King Klann offered archly. Then he smiled. “No, of course not. You don’t drink anything
we
would find palatable, do you?”

Mord’s lipless mouth smiled under his ornate mask. “Your wit becomes a scion of Akryllon, sire.”

“Indeed? Stop patronizing me, Mord. What do you
really
know of what it is to be the scion of Akryllon’s throne?”

Mord tensed imperceptibly, uncertain of this wry turning of the king’s humor. “Milord?”

“You know...if I could believe for a second that the witch woman’s accusations were true—”

Emitting a great, patient sigh, Mord clasped his hands loosely before him. “So, milord, she has done her work well, caused just the sort of rift between us that she would have hoped. Somewhere her shade grins over what she’s wrought.... I make no response to her pernicious accusations, if that’s what you seek. Your very entertainment of the plausibility beggars any response. What do I say to such mad—?”

“Say nothing,” Klann said curtly. A strange mirth danced in his eyes. “Suffice it to say that what happened did indeed happen.” His voice dwindled to a whisper. “But that you will prevent its ever happening in such a way again. Have I made myself clear?” The magician nodded slowly. “And you will separate our personages, so that there will never again be...such a Death and Rising. I crave the living flesh-and-blood counsel of those I might truly trust—my remaining siblings, who are trapped...within.”

Mord’s mind raced with unruly notions. Was the king telling him he suspected that Mord had, in fact, murdered his late brother? Yet was this Klann-personage sanctioning that possible outrage, by virtue of his delight in being freed? The sorcerer’s unholy soul cackled.
Things are indeed looking up.

“Your wish, milord, is ever my duty.”

* * * *

Knowing that Mord was occupied with the hearing of the prophetess and sensing that it might be her only opportunity, Genya slinked into the ground floor corridors of the sorcerer’s drum tower, bent on fulfilling her promise to Richard.

She had to find Lottie, and the three of them must flee this awful place.

It was all wrong. Something inside her despaired for Lottie, told her that her friend was dead...or worse. But she had promised, and she was motivated by her own determination to discover what had become of her longtime friend.

So far, so good.
Genya cautiously, ever-so-deliberately made the circuit of the ground floor, checked the empty chambers that weren’t locked, and found nothing. No sentries were on duty, most of the garrison also at the hearing, so she hadn’t found it necessary to employ her questionable cover story; but still, Mord’s confidence in leaving the place so unguarded was disarming. And as she ascended the first cold staircase that rose to the darker, mustier second level, she was seized by the certainty of one thing: If Lottie could not be found in the tower, she would never,
never
descend into the subterranean levels, from whose nightmare pit crawled those dim moans of inhuman things in torment....

Second level. A full, cautious circuit—this tower might well be abandoned. Or she was being played for a fool. The notion angered her, summoned an indignant courage that caused her to press onward. And upward.

Halfway around the third level’s girdling main corridor, the obvious—so readily arrested under stress—occurred to her. Why not simply call out Lottie’s name? Why
shouldn’t
she be looking for her missing friend out of honest concern? Even the fulsome enchanter would have to—

The stirring, rustling sounds in the chamber on her left stopped her wispy breathing like a swallowed plug. It was very dark, she suddenly realized. Only starlight strained to illuminate the passageway through the grated windows.
Why didn’t I bring along a lamp? I can’t even light a tor—

The soft scuttling sounds again—more like scratching. Just beyond the rusting chamber door. Her eyes studied every inch of the forbidding portal. The sounds
might
be the struggling of someone bound and gagged on the floor. Might be....

Her hand stretched out to touch the verdigris-stained knob, closed on it. She withdrew it when she heard the muffled voices through the thick ashlar walls.
In this chamber?
No. No, they were coming from the
next
cell.

Madonna
, do I move on or turn back or—
sssst!

Footsteps ascending the winding stairway. Low voices. The clump of boots and the jangling of—
Merciful Father!
The jangling of keys—the ring of keys Mord always carried when in the tower!

Genya’s face twisted like that of a child in pain, but she made no outcry. Instead she did the only thing she could: She tried the knob, and it yielded. But the footsteps were approaching rapidly—
Mord
...Mord’s voice speaking in those sepulchral tones amid other men’s voices, and by now she could see the orange glare of their torches rising to the third level, and they were coming, they were coming, and there was nothing to do but—

Creak....

Genya pushed in the door as gently as she could, but still it made its small telltale noise on rusty hinges, and all she could think to do was send up to heaven the most fervent prayer of her young life. Then she was lapped up by darkness, her back to the door, eyes shut tightly, lips drawn inside her mouth, where they continued their trembling.

And the scuttling sounds were near her feet now.

Rats.

“Stay there,” Mord’s voice boomed in echo, “and allow no one to pass.”

She bit her lip. Her whole body went numb to hear him striding past her place of concealment, and she prayed that he possessed no sense that might divine her presence here in the foul-smelling darkness.

She shuddered in the rank chamber, hearing Mord enter through the door wherein she had heard the voices. And now despite her circumstances, her undying curiosity was stoked. Who was in there? Dim light shone here and there through cracks in the ancient mortar that separated the chambers. She heard a woman’s voice—and a man’s—and Mord’s deep basso profundo, twice as loud as either. Something was familiar about the woman’s voice, but Mord kept drowning her out just when Genya would begin to identify the lilt. It was all infuriatingly muted. Perhaps if she could get closer—

The cracks flared alight, a lamp having been lit on the adjacent chamber wall. Up near the low ceiling: a sizeable chink through which yellow light gleamed, unfiltered. If she could reach that height, it might be—

“...better, isn’t it?”

Genya gasped. It was the man’s voice. Near the wall. He must have lit the lamp, and now
his
tone had a remarkably familiar quality. Her scalp itched, nerve ends prickling. She had to know.

Slowly, inching along with a balance and control that might have done a
bushi
proud, Genya moved across the cluttered room, in darkness. Her hands reached out sensitively, feeling her path...a set of stocks or a pillory from the days of the rampaging bandits; along one wall, a huge arm of a catapult or mangonel, disassembled, rusting....

The wall. And the familiarity of the woman’s voice again—

The chink was a foot above her head. She reached a hand up and felt the warmer air that soughed through it.
The man—a dreadful inkling. No, forget that, it couldn’t be....

She reached down along the wall. There must be something there to climb onto. She felt along the clammy stone, searching downward. A rat ran over her foot at the base of the wall, and she lurched back, bumping the mangonel arm and clamping her hand over the hiss of her sharp inhale. She froze, listening. An agonizing minute.... The conversation continued unabated.

Reaching down again, Genya found something cold and crusted, an iron object that seemed solid and almost flat. It wouldn’t yield when she tried to shake it. Solid footing....

Her heart pounded as she mounted with a deliberation that made her muscles ache. Her fingers found purchase in the chipped mortar and stone, and she brought her eye to the chink and peered through. For an instant the lamplight was blinding, but almost before her eye had adjusted, her mind began to accept the testimony her ear had presented.

Trembling like a winter-born foal, she heard little of what they were saying, so bewildered, so frightened was she by the figures she saw gathered.