Gonji: Red Blade from the East (39 page)

The square became a screaming chaos, spectators breaking in every direction.

The eerie stranger spun and loped toward Gonji’s side of the stage. In two long strides he was across the boards, and with an inhuman leap over Gonji’s head, he landed atop an astonished dragoon, knocking him from his rearing steed. Three other dragoons backed their mounts away from their fallen comrade, took aim with crossbows as the fugitive dashed off on foot.

Gonji obeyed the impulse of the moment, dumping over the potage-seller’s table, hot liquid splashing hind legs and flanks, the horses bolting and shrilling in pain. The dragoons were thrown into disorder. Gonji disappeared into the clashing crowd, dearly hoping he hadn’t been spotted by soldiers. There’d be no way to know; that was the worst of it.

The stranger tore along the avenue at a sprint. Gunshots and arrows whistled past him. The soldiers on the rostrum had to reload, but horsemen clattered after him. He was as good as dead, on foot.

Gonji’s nails bit into his palms. He itched, ached to cover the escape of so valiant a warrior. But there was nothing more he could do. He moved to a better coign of vantage, thrilling at the chase, stretching out with his will, white-knuckled with the strain, as if he could impart to the stranger some of his own strength.

The two lead riders ran him down near the wall. There was no way he could evade them.
Why had he boxed himself in?
They raised their swords to strike. But then, against all reason, he stopped and turned, shot his arms upward as if to strike at the horses, who reared and whinnied keeningly, stamping back, one rider unseated.

The madman dashed at the wall again as three mercenaries clattered onto the scene, sighting along bows and pistols.

Then—in the midst of the volley—
up
the wall in two scraping steps—
and over
!

“Oh, my God!” came a cry of disbelief near Gonji, who gritted his teeth and blinked with eyes that had seen their share of the unlikely. The man had run, leapt, propelled himself—every man would have his own description later—up to an allure
fifteen feet
above the ground, and then vaulted over the wall to the other side in a continuation of the same motion.

But he had been hit by an arrow while in the air—Gonji was sure of it. An archer had been wildly lucky, a free companion who now pumped the bow above his head in triumph and spurred after the pursuit party that galloped through the postern to collect the body.

Cholera.

Soldiers were clearing people from the square. The area was swarming with mounted men, Julian in their lead—now, presumably, more important than ever:

For Ben-Draba was dead. His neck had been broken.

Mounting Tora and dawdling near the square, Gonji was rewarded with the sight he had waited for: the return of the party that had gone after Ben-Draba’s wounded killer.

They came back empty-handed, shaking their heads and whispering among themselves.

Gonji sat astride Tora for a space, staring at the spot far down the avenue where the mysterious stranger had panicked two battle-trained steeds and hurdled a twenty-foot stone wall with an arrow stub in his backside. He felt curiously as if he’d had a brush with destiny.

The bell tower at the square chimed six bells, the dinner hour. There would be much to talk about over dinner in Vedun this night, not least of which would be the tale spoken in hushed whispers by the soldiers who had tracked Ben-Draba’s killer. For they had followed the trail of blood to the edge of the pine forest at the foothills, found the spot where the fugitive had groped into the underbrush...but no horse would enter the wood at that place.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Clouds were mounting in the west, and a welcome breeze blew through the dusty streets of Vedun when Gonji ascended the Benedettos’ portico steps.

The small crowd gathered before the open door resembled a theater queue. They fell silent and parted before Gonji.

Gonji strode proudly, now affecting his serene “dignitary mode,” as he called it. He said nothing and looked neither right nor left. At the entrance he wiped his feet carefully as the people within acknowledged his arrival, heads turning and nodding.

“Gonji!” Wilf’s greeting was the single word spoken.

He removed his swords ceremoniously before stepping inside and, in deference to the hosts—there being no sword racks in European homes—leaned them beside the door jamb on the right side.

Michael reclined on a cot, a wet cloth over his broken nose. The city surgeon, Dr. Verrico, attended him. Beside him was Michael’s wife, Lydia, bearing a pan of water. All eyes were on Gonji. He stepped forward and bowed deeply to Michael and a bit shallower to Lydia.

“May only honor descend on this house,” Gonji said softly in Italian, “and may the spirits of your ancestors receive your brother’s spirit into their care.”

Then there were sporadic cheers, the tension dissolving, and Gonji found himself surrounded by congratulating well-wishers, whose back-slapping he found distasteful but well worth tolerating. He hadn’t been the center of such a display for a long time, and attention was, to say the least, not displeasing to him. But he continued to act with decorum, sensing that the group was in the palm of his hand.

“Welcome, Gonji,” Michael said in a nasal tone, removing the cloth to reveal his swollen nose, “and thanks for your part in the fight. I understand you did somewhat better than I, shall we say.”

“It was
great
!” Phlegor, the temperamental tradesman, advanced. “You looking to hire out your skills, maybe?”

“And who has empowered you to hire on behalf of the council, guildsman?” Flavio said jestingly. Then he addressed Gonji: “Thank you, friend, for your words of defense on behalf of the city.” They exchanged bows.

“Lydia, make our new guest comfortable—some wine, please,” Michael instructed.”

“Lie still there, or we’ll be removing that useless nose of yours,” Dr. Verrico urged, shaking his head.

“Why don’t you?” Lydia teased. “It’ll be a good lesson to him. A man of reason—fighting like that.” She tossed her blonde head pertly. For the first time Gonji took note of Michael’s stunning wife. “Everyone may as well settle in,” she added in a businesslike, though not inhospitable, fashion. “I’ll start the cook on an impromptu banquet—come in, come in!”

There were shouts of approval as the house filled up rapidly. People pushed in, paid respects to Michael and Flavio; then many rushed over to comment on Gonji’s amazing unarmed fighting skill. Gonji had been granted a place of honor near the center of the noisy parlor. Only slightly less popular was the obscure corner in which Garth Gundersen had seated himself, nursing his puffed lip and hideously discolored eye. Gonji felt uneasy, for Wilf was sitting here with him, toasting him repeatedly, while his father fended off the congratulations of strangers. But while Garth deplored his own lack of self-control in becoming involved in the fight, yet he was finding it difficult to suppress a grin.

“And was that a friend of yours, Gonji, who snuffed out the bastard commander?” Phlegor yelled over the muttered conversations. Supportive shouts broke from the party, as the subject on everyone’s mind was at last broached. “
Cholera
, that was something!”

Gonji was shaking his head, his answer drowned out.

“Hush!” Lydia commanded, surging out from the kitchen. “Such vulgarity! Is that meet talk for a proper house? Anyway, you pronounce it poorly—it’s ‘ho-LETT-a’.”

Penitent murmurs and downcast eyes, amid the embarrassed chuckling. Gonji smiled at the obvious respect tendered the councilman’s wife. He admired such feistiness in a woman.

“They say he got away,” someone said.

“Tsuh?”

“I hope so—what an incredible fighter, almost not human!”

“Did you see him jump to the top of the wall?”

“No, he
ran
up the side—”

“The soldiers are scared.”

Gonji chuckled. “Don’t count on them staying that way. This town would need a few more men like that before....” He let his voice trail off, shackling the thought, and took a swig of wine. “But he wasn’t a local?” he continued after a pause. “You’re all sure of that?”

“No—
nein
—
nyet
—”

“Well, I have my own theory as to who he was,” Gonji advanced tellingly.

Kegs of ale and mead, ordered from Wojcik’s Haven, the nearer inn, arrived and were dealt out with zest. A festive mood prevailed, and Gonji was warming to it, feeling accepted by the group.

A rumble of wagons sounded outside. There were calls of “Neriah-Neriah” aimed at Flavio, and the Elder rose to greet his friend at the door.

A short, portly balding man in traveler’s cloak and skullcap, with a prominent nose to rival Vlad Dobroczy’s, came bounding up the steps without. He began jabbering to Flavio as if resuming a conversation that had only momentarily been interrupted as the two embraced. This was the merchant Jacob Neriah, Flavio’s old friend, passing through Vedun with a caravan of goods for the eastern trade centers. He spoke breathlessly, and not a little like a chipmunk might.

“Friend Flavio!—what demons mark your skies?! What is this army that dogs my path, eh? Another power to which I must pay taxes? Oh, oh, oh! Things were so much simpler when we were young. There was good profit for the honest chapman, and he could keep what he earned. Isn’t that so? Now I come to do business with you, and before I get here the Hapsburgs take their tithe, the Turks extort tribute, and the Magyars steal the rest! Then highwaymen and beasts of the night devour my companions—what’s an honest man to do?! Ohhh, my head weighs heavy with my travail. On one side of the sea I ward off demons with the Torah, on the other I fend vampires with the cross of Christ—Yahweh, forgive my duplicity!”

There was hearty laughter at the chatter of the much-liked Neriah. As bread and fruit were passed out to the gathering, Flavio filled him in on the occupation of Vedun, to much head-shaking and hand-wringing by Jacob. At the grim news of Mark’s death, the merchant muttered a Hebraic prayer and sat with Michael awhile to commiserate.

The aroma of broiling fish wafted in from the kitchen. Gonji watched Lydia move about the room with serving bowls and pitchers, gliding with the grace of a gentle air current. Once when she passed near him he took in the subtlest hint of the lilting fragrance she wore, so fresh and natural that it might have been only the working of his imagination. He tried hard not to stare.

“And what do you think we ought to do about these bandits?” a stranger asked him.

“Eh? Oh, the occupying army....” He thought a moment. “Mmm—I’d say the security here is a bit too unsound for me to be bleating about that indiscreetly.”

“Wise words for all of us to consider, methinks,” Flavio cautioned over his goblet.

“Ah, but you do think something ought to be done,” Phlegor persisted, grinning knowingly.

Gonji sighed. “Interests must be protected, defended. Mercenary armies are notoriously...acquisitive, shall we say.”

“
There
are words of wisdom for you, Flavio,” Phlegor said.

Michael and Jacob joined the group as Dr. Verrico took his leave of them. Garth, too, quickly rose to leave when it seemed he’d be asked to join the discussion.

“This is a bad business, Flavio,” Jacob observed in a low voice as they drank, grouped in a loose circle. “I’ve seen dead soldiers wearing the Rorka crest—”

At this Gonji raised an eyebrow: the patrol he helped dispatch? Likely. He shrank a bit.

“—and in Bratislava the treasury was sacked, by bandits who sound much like these you have here. The bishopric was attacked, so they say, by fiery beings that burned the guards where they stood. And then an ogre of some sort broke into the treasury and made off with the city’s gold.” Jacob Neriah shook his head.

The men who had been at the previous night’s council meeting exchanged furtive glances, none of which were lost to Gonji.

“It’s true,” Gonji advanced. “I’ve followed in their spoor for some time. Seen villages sacked, and even—” He cut himself short just as he was about to speak of the monastery. The memory of the horrors he had seen there, of his guilt and shame, were still too poignant. A moment later he was glad he had withheld the intelligence.

“What about Holy Word Monastery?” Wilf asked. “Do you suppose Klann’s been there?”

“Hard to say,” Flavio opined. “It’s well hidden in the mountains. Yet Father Dobret is late three days now for his monthly visit. No other monks have come to celebrate Mass or distribute communion. There are sick needing the last sacrament—perhaps the roads in the valley and the mountain passes are a-swarm with Klann’s troops and the monks fear to travel here.”

The concern over the monastery clearly ran so deep that Gonji was relieved that he hadn’t driven their spirits further underground with word of the slaughter. They’d find out soon enough, he supposed.

“I think it would be in your best interests not to let yourselves be intimidated by these soldiers,” Gonji said at length. “Go to your jobs singing boldly. They thrive on aggressiveness and are uneasy among people they can’t intimidate. Tell them legends of local protective spirits—you all heard what I told them today about the Deathwind. You saw their reaction. They have monsters to aid them, so you make up your own to keep them in their places. When they have bad fortune, blame it on the local beasts of fable. Play on their superstitious fears. Will you be going to meet with Klann soon?”