Gonji: Red Blade from the East (16 page)

But the two men from the stable had mounted bareback and were blocking the street. One waved a torch; the other—it might have been a pistol. Gonji couldn’t be sure. Two footmen appeared at their side, brandishing swords, and Gonji made an abrupt decision. A bad one.

He swung Tora between the huts and down an alley, by this time reeling in the saddle from the ague, the bleeding shoulder wound, the thunder in his head. As soon as he caught sight of the wall in the darkness ahead, he knew he had made a mistake. On this side of the village the perimeter wall was in better repair, built higher. Impossible for Tora to leap.

They turned left into the back lane, again heading toward the fields, but the wall was complete all the way to the southeast corner, and he knew he must head back to the main street. They bolted past the tall grain bins and charged, living fire flaring the faces of both man and horse.

Shouts and footfalls, the scrape of metal lay all about them.

They emerged, Gonji steeling against the certainty of a searing pistol ball. He saw an arch that led to the fields on his right.
Almost there!
They were nearly to the wall before Gonji saw the ropes strung tight across the arch. He pulled hard on the reins, and Tora shrilled and reared, throwing Gonji over and nearly landing on him. The horse righted itself, and the samurai pushed up out of the mud and drew his swords.

For a moment his vision was a blur of harsh light and color, a field of crackling white flecks. Then his eyes focused.

He was encircled by heaving bodies and trembling sword arms. Cocked pistols drew a bead. No one spoke. Some cast about with confused glances, uncertain what was going on. Dull moonlight penetrated the cloud cover and highlighted ghostly faces that held Gonji with bulging eyes and gasping mouths. The rain had dwindled to a seething mist.

Gonji breathed hard, pivoted with the deadly, swaying motion of a coiled viper, stopped when he saw Navárez. The horse-faced sneer of Esteban floated above the captain’s shoulder. Together they looked like swarthy Siamese twins. Gonji’s eyes narrowed, and he thought he saw Navárez flinch as the Sagami fixed on his throat.

Then from behind them Riemann bounded up, yelling incoherently. He pushed past Navárez, aiming his wheel lock at Gonji.

“He killed them!” the German cried on a tremulous breath. “Ling and Hu San, both dead.
He
killed them.
He cut Ling’s head off!
You bloody bastard!”

Gonji stiffened as the raging adventurer squeezed the trigger. Navárez roared at him to hold his fire.

Too late.

Every fiber in Gonji’s body tensed. But the pistol clacked, spluttered, misfired.

The entire party stared blankly, then sucked in a collective breath as Gonji howled and charged the bewildered Riemann. The men flanking him fell back, cowed by the ferocity of Gonji’s attack. Riemann stumbled, clawing for his rapier, terror on his face.

“Hold it!”

Like a lumpy toad, Jocko had sprung between the two men and was almost downed by Gonji’s whirling blade. The blow was checked scant inches from the wizened head. Gonji glared at him, uncertain, sprang back a pace and eyed the moist hands that clutched sword hilts, the two or three pistols that suddenly offered their holders less comfort.

Navárez found his voice. “What’s this all about? What do you think to do here,
bárbaro
, murder us all in our sleep?” He pointed his cutlass at Gonji.
“Who are you working for?”

“He killed ’em all right, Franco,” Jocko bellowed. “I seen it all. They jumped ‘im first, and he slashed ’em to bits, that’s true. But it ain’t
that
you oughta be worryin’ about.”

Navárez inclined a curious ear toward Jocko but kept his eyes on the samurai. Gonji glowered at the old fool, his thoughts jumbled.
Now, what the hell—?
The others began whispering and shuffling nervously, weapons in itching fists. Jocko lumbered up to Gonji.

Their eyes met hotly.

“Ya thought ya could fool an old dog, eh?” Jocko snarled. “Somebody tried to hang you only they didn’t quite make it,
si
? Who the hell you kiddin’, sonny? Look here.” He reached toward Gonji’s throat with Kingslayer, but Gonji batted it away sharply with his blade, felt a twinge of pain in the stabbed shoulder.

What’s this old fool doing?

A rippling murmur coursed through the bandits as they watched. Rain and sweat glistened on every face. Each man hoped he wouldn’t be the one to face that deadly sword when the command came.

Jocko snorted with disgust. “Well, I don’t need to show ya. I seen it myself and that’s enough. He’s got big purple marks all over his neck! Now, how many men you know that’ve walked away from a hangin’? He wasn’t
hanged.
And ya all know where we seen marks like that before, too. Prob’ly got ’em all over his body, aintcha, pilgrim? Says he’s been up
north
.”

He said the word as if it should have been a revelation, and a few men gulped tellingly, glanced from one to the other. Gonji could only stare, baffled, sword at the ready. His sweat made the wound burn as if from the touch of a brand. He fleetingly wondered how much blood he had lost.

Jocko walked slowly, talking as he went, using the cutlass to punctuate his words.

“Lookit the way he shakes there. His head’s hot as a spent cannon barrel. Been complainin’ about this pain in his belly, says it makes him act strange.”

A hush. Jocko turned to Navárez.

“Know what I think, Franco? That bugger’s got the
plague
!”

Several men lowered their weapons and grumbled fearfully. Gonji felt a surge of bile rise at the old man’s words. Then his muddled thoughts ordered themselves. This might be his out, if he played his cards right.

Then, as if the notion had been a psychic signal, Jocko said to Navárez: “I don’t know about you—and yer the boss, Franco—but
I
sure wouldn’t blood my sword on his shit-festered carcass!
I
ain’t buryin’ no plague-ridden scum! Let’s run ‘im outta here. Him and that worm-eaten nag o’ his. Throw ’em out!”

The captain regarded Gonji speculatively, and a slow-burning anger flickered the corners of his eyes.

“You let me drink from your water skin!” He advanced a threatening pace. Gonji stood motionless, held a breath.

“No, no, he prob’ly didn’t know,” Jocko cut in. “That damn monkey-man don’t know what’s got him. Can’t blame him fer stupidity, eh?” He cackled icily, then loped over to Tora and grabbed his reins, walked the horse to the circle. “Here, get him outta here. Let the vultures pick ‘im over someplace else. I ain’t gonna bury no fouled corpse.” A sadness stooped the old man’s shoulders, and his voice grew shallow. “Got enough buryin’ to do around here anyway....”

No one moved or spoke. Gonji watched as indecision swept Navárez’ gaze groundward. Then, very cautiously, he eased himself up onto the saddle. Jocko threw him the reins with an arrogant snap, and Gonji found himself suppressing a smile. For it had all become clear to him in that very instant when he caught the merry little twinkle that flashed under Jocko’s brows. The old man had set it up, acted it all out—who else would’ve saddled Tora in readiness?

Gonji shuddered and let out a labored breath. Bad to lose control like that, to let them see the toll his pains were taking. So he glanced about the company and, seeing no proffered threat, wheeled Tora toward the arch and over the now limp ropes that had barred their way moments before.

“Bárbaro!”

Gonji halted and turned slowly. He met Navárez’ gaze with weary indulgence. The captain strode forward, and the others bunched in behind him.

Navárez held out a rain-slicked palm. “You have my
gold
.”

Gonji’s hand snapped reflexively to the kimono pocket. The sack of doubloons chinked against his ribs. Without taking his eyes off the hostile party, he extracted the bag, worked the drawstrings open. He nestled the open bag at his crotch and removed two coins—his roughly calculated payment for work to date. He dropped these back into his pocket and lifted the bag by the strings, noticing the blood spots that had seeped through the pocket and dotted the purse.

The sack splashed in the mud at Navárez’ feet.

The captain gritted his teeth, and Esteban edged up beside him and looked as if he would say something. He thought better of it when no one else moved up with him. Navárez pointed, and Esteban reached down for the sack.

“Hey!”

Esteban froze. All heads turned as Jocko tramped up and grabbed the toady Esteban’s arm.

“Ya wanna pick that up after he’s been layin’ on it fer three days?” Jocko’s face twisted with disgust, the sort of look that spreads contagiously from one onlooker to the next. Esteban backed a pace.

Gonji caught the snicker in his craw before it could break on his lips. He forced a hateful scowl and fixed it on the old man.

“Come,
muchachos
,” Navárez said at length. “We have business.” Then, groping for something with which to save face: “Go crawl away and die someplace else, eh? Our paths cross again,
bárbaro
, we hang you with your own swords stuck up your rump,
entender
?”

Gonji arched an eyebrow contemptuously and flashed a smirk as he turned Tora toward the drainage ditches carved along the grain fields. They cantered away from the village. The last image of the place: a fleeting glimpse of the burly peasant Gonji had backed off earlier, as the man peered from the shutters at the rear of his hut.

Wearily he took stock of his pains, which were considerable. The fever raged anew. His shoulder burned from the knife wound, and he could feel the sticky wetness of blood clear down to his waist.

He slowed Tora and worked open the kimono, whose thick fabric had absorbed only a thin line of blood that ran along the inside left fold. His gray tunic, however, shone luridly in the full moon’s dim light. He daubed at the wound with a cloth, grateful that it was shallow and had left him use of the left arm.

* * * *

Jocko clucked to himself softly as he watched the departing figure become enveloped by misty rain and slow-rolling gray fog. He peered over his shoulder at the shambling company, clenching his fists and hunching his shoulders jubilantly at the success of the fine ploy. With a curt nod toward Gonji, he bent and scooped up the sack of doubloons, stuffing it inside his shirt.

* * * *

A hollow in the lee of a cliff provided Gonji shelter against the chill and rain. He sat with his back against the cold stone and shivered under his blanket. Every muscle complained; every swallow burned his throat. He had neither flint nor tinder with which to strike a fire. He counted his aches, sneezed with gale force, eyes and nose watering freely. His head pounded relentlessly. For the first time he began to truly believe that he might die in this land, just as the Weeping Sisters had said. Hadn’t they mentioned having...brothers? Would a horde of ravening vampires feast on him this night?

If so, they would have to feast on a corpse. He fingered the Sagami, which lay horizontally beneath his drawn-up knees. Two swords were fixed in a cruciform stuck in the ground before him. The wind gradually changed direction as he sat, whipping around the cliff to buffet him.

He had emerged from the mountain cleft by which Jocko had arrived in the valley and, for no particular reason, in a dreamlike, near unconscious state, doubled back along the road they had traveled yesterday. From this vantage he could make out the sloping pine tops rippling below.

Very stupid, he thought hazily. I’m circling back toward the Magyars’ territory. I’ll probably awaken to see them huddled over me, stropping their swords.

He scratched his beard, and the sound seemed to echo in his head from someplace far away. There was a merciful quality to the dullness of his racked senses this night. The wind carried in its wake an evil howling. Somewhere, men were dying. Or worse. There was a ravishing elemental power and beauty to the storm, but under it crept an awful eldritch purposefulness in the night’s hungry blackness. To be a man alone this night was to be as one hunted. Like the
kami
His Augustness the Male Who Invites when pursued by the Ugly Female of the Land of Night.

Only I am a man, not a
kami
, Gonji mused.

There was no choice but to surrender to sleep. As he drifted off, Gonji heard again in his head the eerie chanting of the soldiers that had wafted up to him as he left the valley. The invocation. At least he hadn’t had to deal with that. But his brush with the 3rd Free Company, Royalist Force of the Isle of Akryllon, had left him feeling unclean. He had an overwhelming sensation of running from unfinished business.

He drew a shuddering breath as slumber stole over him, a half-remembered prayer on his lips for the protection of a good
kami.
The words seemed hollow and futile as they flitted past. And then the thought came: Maybe the old man was right.