Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel. T. C. Rypel

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СКАЧАТЬ a gesture of peace and respect, these were still to be considered hostile surroundings.

      Klann had steered the conversation away from military and political matters to topics of a more light-hearted, jovial nature, sometimes seeming about to reveal some inner source of mirth. Gonji’s curiosity was just turning to the empty place of honor beside the king when a table of mercenaries nearby was cleared, a new troop clumping in shortly thereafter to take their places with many a braying greeting to comrades already present.

      A pang of alarm: Would Klann’s magnanimity reach out to encompass his entire mercenary force? Would the 3rd Free Company, whom Gonji had quit after the violent incident with the Mongols, be relieved so that they might feast this night, as well?

      His gaze wandered to his swords, leaning at his side against the bench, then back to the new band of adventurers who were already regarding with puzzlement his topknot and oriental features. There within easy reach was his katana, the Sagami, whose noble steel had tasted the blood of many strong opponents. Skewed against it was his ko-dachi, the short sword which, if honor demanded, would be used for seppuku, for ritual suicide, before he would ever submit to surrender.

      If the hours of this night were to be his last, then that was karma. So be it. He dismissed the matter. But not before first offering a short prayer to the kami of fortune that he might have an end of his quest before dying.

      Then he was suddenly attentive on the king, for Klann had addressed him personally.

      “And you, bodyguard,” Klann was saying in Italian, “your name is Gonji—?”

      “Sabatake Gonji-no-Sadowara, sire,” Gonji clarified, standing proudly and offering Klann a deep bow. “Gonji is my given name.”

      “I’ve heard something of your Far Eastern fighting prowess. Were you not one who came forward to fight my ill-fated field commander?”

      Gonji was aware of Julian’s scornful glare as the captain leaned forward on an elbow at the high table.

      “Hai, milord—yes,” Gonji answered, smiling thinly. “But, so sorry, I was denied the honor of fighting the great boxer. Instead I was placed in a contest with his subordinate, a man of somewhat lesser skills.”

      He couldn’t resist the jibe, and he knew from the oohing and laughter that it had carried to the table of Luba. He could practically feel the heat waves emanating from Luba’s table.

      Klann chuckled. “They say you use your feet as smoothly as a man might use his fists. I’d like to see that sometime. But what I’d really like to know is, who was your friend?” Klann’s eyes narrowed under coyly arched brows.

      Gonji swallowed, cocking his head uncertainly. “Sire?”

      “The one who so easily killed Ben-Draba.”

      Nearby conversation dwindled amid shushing whispers. Gonji chose his words carefully.

      “So sorry, Milord King, but...you ascribe to me influence that this simple warrior neither possesses nor deserves.” He smiled and bowed again, not so low this time.

      “I see,” Klann said patronizingly. “Well, then we’ll leave it at this: This ‘pouncing killer,’ or whatever the troops are calling him, had best not turn up in the province again. Unless, that is, he’d like to claim the price on his head for himself. We might make room in our mercenary command for such an astonishingly gifted fighter, eh?”

      Klann looked up and down the table at his officers, who grunted or clucked hoarsely.

      “I might make room for him at the end of my saber,” Julian advanced haughtily. A few nervous laughs came from the table, but they were bled of all their conviction by the still poignant memory of the big commander’s helplessness at the ferocious attack by the stranger, the subsequent whirlwind escape, climaxed by the unique warrior’s amazing leap over a fifteen-foot wall and disappearance into the forest—with a war arrow embedded in his flesh.

      “He’s probably dead already of his wounds,” one of Klann’s captains said from behind clenched hands that supported his chin on bracing elbows. There were mutters of hopeful agreement.

      “I’m not so sure.”

      From his end of the table came the eerie bass voice of Mord. The sorcerer stood and pointed to Gonji with a gloved hand.

      “Tell me what you know of the Deathwind, barbarian, he who is called Grejkill.” A wave of hushing swept the entire side of the hall.

      Gonji was annoyed by the wizard’s insult but too intrigued by the abrupt broaching of the object of his own quest to pay it any heed. It was in fact the first time he could recall anyone had mentioned the mystery names to him. His heart began to pound.

      “It is...the name of the thing I have come to seek in the West. I have been told many things about these names. Some conflicting things. There are those who say the names refer to nothing more than a European legend. But others would tell you that they speak of a beast...a thing that is not quite a man—or perhaps it’s the other way around. My quest after it has led me here, to this province. In these mountains the lore-mongers name the Deathwind as their God’s avenging spirit, some protective horror that will lay low their oppressors....”

      At this last disclosure there were gasps and whispers all around, for there could be little doubt that Gonji had been referring to the occupying force of Klann.

      “...of course that’s all probably peasant talk, the idle chatter of the uneducated. Who can say?” he concluded, smiling slyly.

      “I think perhaps you know more than fireside prattle,” Mord accused, and Gonji’s arms stiffened at his sides. He was suddenly sorry that he had removed his swords.

      “What do you know of this?” From a concealed pocket Mord produced a large formed metal object. A huge key. The key produced an immediate effect on Gonji’s companions; their flaring nerve ends could almost be seen. But Gonji himself could not remember ever having seen it, though it piqued a recent memory.

      “Nothing. I’ve never seen it before.” He tinged his voice with gentle menace, weary of the sorcerer’s brusque tone.

      “I think you’re lying.”

      “Mord, that’s enough,” said Klann, his tone almost one of boredom.

      “I think you’re all lying,” Mord persisted, “concealing intelligence of interest to the king.”

      Gonji’s mordant tongue, one of the legacies of his Nordic mother, had lost its taste for diplomacy.

      “Very sorry, maho-tsukai-san—Sir Magician—but I believe your great powers are being wasted on this effort at intimidation. Why don’t you try them at divining instead—”

      “Gonji!” Flavio warned curtly.

      “—I would think it to be a simple matter for one who can call up giants and foul carrion birds.”

      Mord raised his arms forebodingly.

      Chairs and benches scraped at all the surrounding tables, a few screams heard as people scrambled to clear the area. Gonji grabbed up the Sagami, its blade whining from the scabbard as he leaped clear of the table.

      “Gonji—no!” СКАЧАТЬ