Gonji: A Hungering of Wolves (34 page)

Wilf felt his face flushing.

There came a pounding on the door. Henri admitted a blanching messenger, who whispered briefly to the concierge before departing.

“What is it?” Wilf asked.

“Two tough-looking brigands at the town hall, asking for the magistrate or…”

“Oui?”

“…or the Wunderknechten leaders of this town. He says they’ll speak to no one else.”

“Who is the magistrate right now?”

Henri spread his hands uncertainly. “Darcy Lavelle, I suppose. Lamont went looking for him.”

“Send the mercenaries here,” Wilf said sternly.

“What?
Why?”

“Out in the hall. I want to see them. Can you do that for me?”

Gabrielle rose and moved between them, stepping into her sabots. “I’d be delighted to…my fine young swain.”

Henri shook his head to see Wilf’s look of discomfiture over the sexual tension that had formed between them and said, “Be quick about it, then, little minx. And be
wary
of them.”

Gaby made a face at her father and dashed out the door.

“I best charge up my pistols,” Henri said glumly.

* * * *

Wilf coldly regarded the well-armed pair of obvious highwaymen who accompanied Gaby back to the inn.

“Here is one of our leaders,” she told the burly spokesman, who looked as though he’d seen his share of close combat. Gaby then sidled behind the bar, breathing shallowly, tensely, and casting glances back and forth from Wilf to the strangers.

“I am the Wunderknechten…liaison here,” Wilf said, carefully altering what Gaby had implied. “Name your business.”

The two armed men exchanged a suspicious look and separated as they slowly approached Wilf.

The big man stuck his thumbs into his broad belt. A short, angry, double-bladed axe protruded from its front.

“That so? You speak lousy French for a Burgundian.”

The brute’s partner, a younger, slimmer man in a feathered slouch hat, suddenly drew a pistol and leveled it at Wilf.

The big brigand pulled out his axe. “In fact, an accent like that marks you for an outlander.”

Wilf still sat, unflinching, though a vein throbbed at his temple as he glanced from one to the other. “Nonetheless, I am the one you seek. And if it’s a fight you’re looking for, you’ve probably come to the right town.”

The leader looked to his partner again, grunting boorishly. The gun-wielding brigand cocked an eyebrow to hear Wilf’s bold words, his hand flexing the pistol into a fresh grip.

The big man snorted and then suddenly cocked the axe and flung it. Its gleaming head flashed past Wilf’s own to
thunk
surely into a vertical beam just behind him.

“I didn’t have to miss,” the axe-man declared.

“Touche!”
Gaby cried out from behind the bar. She was holding a gun on them, her eyes shining as she held the pistol-wielding stranger’s gaze in check. The piece looked huge in her small hands. But her two-handed grasp of it seemed sure.

“Touche,
yourself!” the pistolier replied. “Don’t shoot that thing, little lady! We’re here to help!”

“Horseshit!” Gabrielle spat back. “Find out what they want, Wilf.”

Wilf smiled thinly, for the first time taking comfort in the girl’s flamboyant presence. “Not bad,” he said to the axe-thrower. “But I have a friend who might show you a thing or two about throwing an axe. For now, though, just tell me who you are and what you want. Have you truly come to help, or are you Farouche hirelings?”

The big warrior reddened. He stalked toward Wilf, who stood from his table and drew his own pistol from behind him now, edging back to where Spine-cleaver leaned against the bar behind a chair. He kicked the chair out of the way and watched as the man moved past, ignoring his pistol, to yank the embedded axe free with a single tug of a corded arm.

“You’re a feisty Teuton—that’s what you are, isn’t it?
Oui
, we’re here to help. But you show me the guts to fight first, and
then
I’ll tell you what plans others are making for your deliverance.”

He tossed the axe aside and unbuckled his other weapons, showing his empty hands.

Wilf bridled at the other’s challenge but continued to hold the pistol on him.

Henri Chabot emerged from a storage room, a short-barreled wheel-lock piece leveled in one trembling fist.

“You,” he grated at the slouch-hatted man who held Gaby in a standoff, “lower that gun barrel from my daughter.”

The pistol-wielding stranger blinked and then sighed in exasperation. “Tell your papa to please put down his own pistol.
S’il vous plait, mademoiselle?”

“Drop yours first,” Gabrielle replied, her jaw jutting.

“Aw, shit, Brett,” Normand Gareau griped at his comrade, now lowering the pistol and removing his hat to wipe his brow. “I think they show some spirit,
non?”

Brett Jarret ignored him and pointed at Wilf’s wheel-lock. “Come on, big mouth,” he taunted. “Put that down and show me you have what ‘leaders’ are made of. Rough and tumble, no holds barred. And I’ll only use my feet.” He lifted one booted leg.

“Come on, Brett—” Gareau grumbled. “This young lass looks like she can shoot straight, and the old man’s quaking might make that thing go off.”

Wilf clenched his teeth and faced Brett Jarret squarely. He laid the pistol on a stool, and when he looked down for an instant, Jarret moved fast—

“Watch out!” Gaby warned—too late.

Jarret’s thick leg swung up in a surprisingly graceful crescent kick that passed over Wilf’s head as he ducked nimbly. It was a set-up for the quick jumping front-kick that followed. Wilf caught the blow full in the belly, his breath bursting from his lungs as he stumbled backward.

Jarret moved in, feinting another front kick. Wilf recovered enough to reply with a snapping backfist that fell intentionally short, drawing a dodge that caused Jarret to lean out of balance.

Wilf’s hard-turning roundhouse kick thumped into the warrior’s ribs, eliciting a gasp of shock, as much as pain, and stirring Brett Jarret’s competitive spirit to new heights.

Then Gareau spotted something. “Brett,
wait!”
He tried to draw his friend’s attention—rather like dissuading a charging bull. Wilf’s and Jarret’s boots slammed together in fierce kicks that blocked each other, as Gareau put up his pistol in his belt and alternated between making placating gestures to Gaby and Henri and bellowing at Jarret—

“Brett—listen!”

“Shut up, Gareau!”

“Look at his sword—his
sword, man!”

Brett backed Wilf into a corner, leapt, and lashed out with a high front snap-kick aimed at decapitating him. Wilf bobbed under the boot’s heavy lunge and dropped low in the tight quarters, spinning a stiff-legged kick along the floor with enough arc to sweep Jarret’s standing leg from under him. He crashed to the floorboards heavily.

“God damn it, Jarret, will you look at that damned sword? Where have you seen one like that before?” Gareau lurched toward the battlers but looked to Gaby. “Lady,
put that gun down!”

Now Gareau was standing nearly beside Spine-cleaver, pointing at it.

“Look!”

Jarret lay dazedly rubbing the back of his head, scowling, but he did indeed now recognize the
katana,
the only other blade he’d ever seen designed like Gonji’s storied Sagami.

“Wilfred Gundersen
, is it?” Normand Gareau said, smiling and nodding his head. “Correct? You’ll have to forgive Brett. All it takes to set him off is a single word questioning his fighting prowess. Wilfred of Vedun…I should have known as soon as I heard the girl call you Wilf, for Christ’s sake.”

“The
girl’s
name is Gabrielle,” she said petulantly, appraising Gareau more closely now.

Wilf breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m glad you spotted the sword hilt. I was about out of samurai tricks.”

Soon after introductions, people began to arrive at the inn by the curious and vocal bunches as word spread of the new allies’ arrival. Henri Chabot ushered in Darcy Lavelle and a few other friends and militia leaders.

“What’s happening?” Darcy asked.

Wilf was gesturing enthusiastically. “These worthy gentlemen have come from Gonji! They bring news that Gonji’s in the province, with more of our fellows!”

“The
samurai?”

“Sensei
to all Wunderknechten!”

“Now
let’s see what the Farouche will muster to—”

There was a noisy commotion in the streets without. People cried out in shock. Their screams were unsettling at first; weapons sang out of belts and scabbards.

But these, it turned out, were squeals of unbridled joy.

Father Giroux turned out the citizenry to welcome home the rescued children.

Buey and Luigi Leone rode proudly at the head of the column, a small, dark-eyed boy sharing the saddle with Buey until he caught sight of his erstwhile grieving mother. One by one the children were helped down from their horses by eager hands.

“Henri!” Gabrielle called out gaily to her father. “Drinks on the house,
n’est-ce pas?”

* * * *

“So, Jarret,” Buey blared, hefting an ale flagon, “you’re still picking on smaller men, eh?”

“I’d rather take on bigger, but I see you’ve already met your match for the day,” Jarret retorted, indicating Buey’s fresh scars from the knife fight at the well.

Buey was in good spirits for the first time since he’d killed Gonji’s young would-be assassin. Rescuing Lamorisse’s children had been a tonic for him, a catharsis of his guilt over years of violent endeavor.

“You buffoons fight all you want,” Luigi Leone said, adjusting his eye patch. “All I want to do is drink and…maybe make a few friends before we’re fighting for our asses again. Pardon,
madame,”
he appended for Blanche Lavelle’s benefit.

Darcy laughed. “First time we’ve heard such merriment in Lamorisse in…I don’t know—seems like a long time.”

“I just wish we could do something to cheer Wyatt,” Blanche added sadly at his side. Her eyes were brimming with tears as she glanced around the noisy inn.

“We best get this out of our systems quickly, gentle folk,” Wilf advised. “I hate to be a killjoy, but there are still the Farouche to reckon with. Buey’s people foiled whatever their plans were for the children. They’ll do something in retaliation, we can be sure.”

Nods of agreement followed Wilf’s observation.

“Have you heroes seen many monsters like those flying devils we shot down?” Leone asked. Assured by the others that Leone and Buey’s band had yet to encounter the worst of Farouche sorcery, the one-eyed Italian adventurer whistled and toasted their fellowship. “Here’s to our battling band, then—and one hell of an army we make, eh? It’s not going to be like last year.”

Hardy assents rang out in the
auberge.

Wilf pulled Darcy aside. “You and I have plans to make. If I can, I’d like to link up with Gonji as soon as possible.”

As they moved off, Normand Gareau’s eyes narrowed when he caught sight of someone in the crowd.

“Chabot, who’s that man over there?”

Henri peered where Normand pointed, but Gabrielle leaned over the bar between them, “Reynald Labossiere,” she said without bothering to look, for her eyes were settled firmly on the dapper Gareau.

“I have news for you,
ma cherie
—that is
not
his name.”

Gaby watched Gareau amble over to the table where Reynald sat with his wife and a few Wunderknechten companions.

“I know,” she whispered after him.

Reynald seemed contented for the first time in months. And it had been longer still since anyone in Lamorisse had seen him and Faye seemingly enjoying each other’s company.

His smile plummeted when he recognized the face looming above his table.

“Monsieur
…Duvier,” Normand said with complacent certainty.

Silence swept the table as the others took in Reynald’s expression.

“What is it, Reynald?” Faye asked, laying a hand on her husband’s arm. “Who is this man? What does he mean?”

Reynald swallowed, eyes swimming with the spell of the ale and the sudden churning of old memories. “He is…someone I’d hoped never to encounter. Someone who is very much as I once was. I told you you wouldn’t believe certain things I could say about my past, Faye…” He saw that people were staring now, and voices were muting throughout the inn. He steeled himself and went on. “We used to fight on opposite sides, this man and I. I killed one too many on his side, and a price was fixed on my head. He was set to claiming it…once.”

People began to ease back from the table.

Gareau paused for a long, tense moment, then tipped his flagon toward Reynald and bowed to the apprehensive Faye. “Once,” he echoed. “But now we fight on the same side.
Monsieur
…Labossiere.
Madame.”
Gareau smiled, touched his hat brim, and returned to the bar.

Buey shortly took up his late place at Reynald’s whisper-huddled table.

“You know,” the Ox said to the still shaken man, clearing his throat nervously, “I killed one person too many once, too, and…well, I think now that there’s forgiveness enough in Heaven for such as we are…”

Reynald watched the huge warrior humbly drift away from the table, mystified. Tears gathered in the corners of his eyes as he pulled his wife close to him.

Gaby moved along the bar to face Normand Gareau again, eyeing him conspiratorially.

“I knew his name wasn’t really Labossiere, too, you know.”

“Really?” Normand answered. “How so?”

“I have dreams,” she replied. “Some people think they’re prophetic. Like about the castle. I knew the Wunderknechten would be using that haunted old place again. And I’ve had…other dreams.” She smiled coyly.

“Is that so? Like what?”

“Like about the dashing young knight who rides into town and carries me off on his bold charger.”

Gareau gazed into his empty flagon. “Do you have an ale called Ehrenberg?”

“A good one,” she replied, “and not easy to get. But I think I could scare up a measure for such a valiant young swain.”

Their eyes met, but before Gaby could move toward the ale stores, they were all clearing out of the inn in response to the outcries of alarm in the streets.

The moon had risen. A bloated, grotesque oval that loomed impossibly large over Lamorisse. No one had ever seen it so huge. It seemed as if it had drifted near the earth in ominous portent of what was soon to follow.

The sky overhead began to swirl.

A dark, roiling mist spiraled and fumed in the northern sky, like storm clouds stirred by the hand of an angry god. There was a roaring in the heavens and a series of luminous flashings behind the vast, whirling maelstrom, eliciting shouts and outcries from the frightened townsfolk.

Someone, some
thing
was plying forbidden arts. There was little doubt as to whom was behind it.