Gonji: Red Blade from the East (19 page)

The thick crenellated walls of white stone, mortar and timber rose twenty feet or more, buttressing the city from invaders. Arrow-looped battlements jutted skyward at strategic points, silent sentinels at the ready to rain death on the heads of besieging armies. Yet there was a frightfully fatalistic air about the place. Who had built this madman’s citadel, backed as it was against the two-hundred-foot dead drop of the plateau brink? He had heard tales. Campfire magick had been spun from legends of Vedun, the ancient race that had built it, and the awesome sieges it had withstood. Sieges by men and things that were not men. Some said that one such incredible siege had
caused
the shearing of the plateau as it now stood.

But there was no sign of a siege now. No marshaled forces at its walls, no engines of destruction breaching its sanctuary, no hail of shafts or stones, molten lead or Greek fire. All was still.

Had Klann taken Vedun so easily? Were its streets littered with dead? No, that was senseless, and in any case not to be accomplished easily, whatever Klann’s might. Perhaps he was still preparing for attack.

Klann.

Who—or what—was he? A madman? A wizard? An immortal, itinerant king? A bandit chieftain? Or only a legend, a specter that stirs men’s dreams of conquest?

“Soon, Tora. Soon we’ll have all the answers,
neh
?”

Gonji saw no one as he rode near the shadows of the mighty walls. No guards were posted at the battlements. The road passed through a gatehouse flanked by low, flat-topped towers. Empty. The gates were sprung wide.

All wrong.

He reined in and scratched speculatively, feeling very small and naked. Squinted into the afternoon sun. He worked the stiffness out of his injured shoulder. It pained him, but not enough to deflect his probing curiosity. A short bowshot to the right the walls disappeared along the cliff, girdling the city damnably close to the brink. To the north the walls lazily arced for what seemed a mile or so, lost in rolling hills and cultivated plains. A trench ran beneath the walls along their northern expanse, terminating near this western gate. Sewage. Waist-high timber sluice-gates, suspended like pendulums and operated from within by cranks, were cut into the walls at points. Gonji’s nose twisted at the memory of other cities’ open sewage systems like this one.

He thought he heard voices in the distance. Dismounting, he cursed his carelessness. He covered the boy’s body with a blanket, disguising it as best he could. Then he contrived a story concerning how he came to discover the body, carefully deleting the fight and rehearsing the silly lie twice with much attention to the proper facial expressions.

A tocsin clanged somewhere in the north quarter. An alarm or rallying signal.

Ah, he thought, they’re preparing my welcome. Even the gates are flung open to me. Such hospitality!

And with that he laughed uneasily and guided the horses into the city.

PART TWO

O TEMPORA, O MORES!

CHAPTER NINE

“I bring you greetings from King Klann the Invincible, Lord Protector of the province and master of its destiny,” the massive commander’s voice boomed. His war horse sagged under the well-proportioned bulk, and the crowd’s murmuring shrank to a whisper.

Quiet, expectant terror had clutched the city since the night of the full moon, two nights earlier. That night violence had erupted at the castle of Baron Rorka in the northern hills. Human screams and the clash of arms had carried on the night air, and as Vedun craned its collective neck in horror, an evil omen had appeared in the sky above the mountains.

Some said that Satan himself had glared down at them with hungry red eyes.

The prophetess Tralayn alone had defied the spectral figure, moving among Rorka’s city guards, relieving them one by one of their duties. None had been seen since. The following day had been spent in fearful speculation. No rider had come from the castle bearing word of the baron and his troops. And none from the city dared leave. Not the farmers, nor the shepherds, nor any merchant.

Then this morning some hardy souls had returned to their tasks. Farmers, venturing out with their tools and animals. The shepherd Strom, who cared little for anything but his work and his flock. Hunters and fishers and itinerant merchants who feared the specters of new taxes more than the shades of evil.

Then in the early afternoon the double column of troops had arrived at the postern gate, descending from the castle via the winding road which coursed past lush pastureland and the cultivated lowlands.

The troop, about sixty strong, heavily armed and composed mainly of mercenaries, escorted an ominous black carriage trimmed in ornate gilt. Their standard-bearers hoisted a vaguely unsettling coat-of-arms that was also emblazoned on the surcoats and armor of the regulars: a rampaging monster of some sort, peering over its shoulder at a device of seven locked circles. They halted at the closed main gate.

Old Gort the gatekeeper, bald as marble, his head cocked askew by the hideous tumor that bulged on his neck, appraised the troop from his post in the drum tower. At their command—lacking any orders to the contrary from the city council—he dropped the drawbridge over the moatlet trench and opened the portcullis and gate.

The troop clattered along the cobblestones, swords and lances glinting in the sunflare, and halted at the square. Workmen passed by glumly, few daring to look up, but one of their number was singled out to assemble the citizens via the great alarm bell in its tower at the square.

The populace had gathered slowly, a pall hanging over their heads. Mourners at their own funeral. Horses’ hooves pawed at the baking stones, and the animals snorted peevishly. A thousand heads bobbed and muttered in low tones as the people jockeyed for the rearmost positions to evade the intimidating stares of the horsemen. It was withering hot. Animal smells settled like a pungent fog.

“And now,” the commander said, “may I commend you on the bravery with which you’ve defended your city.”

A resounding chorus of laughter broke from the troop. He motioned them to stifle it, grinning broadly.

Three figures emerged to the forefront: Flavio, the balding, bearded council Elder; Michael Benedetto, a handsome young Neapolitan being groomed as his successor; and Milorad, the paunchy master of protocol, hair and beard of flowing hoarfrost, former adviser to a once mighty king. A fourth man, the black-bearded and burly smith Garth Gundersen, stood a few paces behind them, peering up from under a lowered brow.

Flavio spoke in a pleasant, cultured voice. “The city of Vedun bids you welcome, but I must admit that we are somewhat confused. You are—?” Flavio smiled and gestured to the giant warrior.

“Ben-Draba, Field Commander of the Royalist Forces of Lord Klann. And
your
name, old man?”

“I am Flavio, Elder of Vedun’s city council. This is Michael, my protege, and Milorad, our resident diplomat. But again, I must confess to confusion. What has become of Baron Rorka?”

They had been speaking in Rumanian, which all the assembled leaders spoke. Many in the crowd had been translating in hushed whispers for those who didn’t. They were all struck dumb by the deep resonant voice that boomed from behind the thick curtains of the coach.

“Ernst Christophe Rorka,” the unseen speaker bellowed, “is hereby declared a criminal, wanted dead or alive by King Klann.”

The carriage door suddenly swung open, and the crowd gasped. A tall figure emerged, clad in a hooded black cloak. His arms were withdrawn into the ample sleeves of the cloak and crossed over his chest as he strode toward Flavio. His face was concealed behind a carven and filigreed mask of gold.

Silence smothered Vedun.

“I am Mord, High Magician and Counselor to His Majesty Klann the Invincible. I stand here in his stead.” Mord gravely scanned the shocked expressions etched into the faces of the onlookers. “And do you not offer me obeisance?” he asked tauntingly.

Flavio looked cautiously to his two companions. The three bowed forward slightly, Milorad holding the bow longest as he said, “We do so for all, honored counselor.”

“And do you not also
kneel
before the High Magician of a king?” Mord demanded, his voice rising in pitch.

“No authority has ever commanded—” Michael’s words tumbled out hotly, but he was cut short by Flavio’s gesture.

“We are largely a Christian community, and in our beliefs and customs—” Flavio began, but Mord took a threatening step forward.

“I
know
about your beliefs and customs,” the wizard spat, “and I know the meaning of this city doubtless better than you.”

“You have been here before?” Flavio asked.

“I have, and it has changed little. But it
shall
change—and swiftly.” Mord looked about him and barked a command into the tense air. “Remove that meaningless image. It offends me!”

Ben-Draba called out the names of two soldiers, who trotted over to the large crucifix raised behind the rostrum and the coolly spewing fountain with its carvings of cherubim. Over a spate of shouted protests, they pulled down the cross with ropes. A sea of indignant faces swelled forward as Flavio turned and waved the people back. At Ben-Draba’s order a squad of horsemen broke from their rank and pushed back the crowd, swords held high.

Ben-Draba cursed to himself as he removed his helm.
Stupid bastard of
a magician!
Why the hell fool with these superstitious people like that? Mess with their religion and you’re asking for trouble. I know. Wasn’t it oh-so-helpless townies just like these who murdered my brother in Italy? Christians, eh? Even sheep have teeth. Just turn your back and they’ll bare ’em. There are other ways to keep them in check, treat them the way they deserve. I’ve found a few. And I’m not done yet, Melah. A lot more puny little bastards are going to pay before I’ve settled the score for you.

Rapt in his angry thoughts, Ben-Draba didn’t notice the gaze the smith Garth had fixed on him, on the insignia of his rank. And on the coat-of-arms that bore the seven interlocked circles—two of which were blacked-in....

“Why have you done this?” Flavio demanded of Mord. “Vedun is an independent city. The people are free to worship as they please. And in any case the crucifix is our property.”

Mord extended a hand, pointing at Flavio with a bejeweled glove. Not a spot of the magician’s skin was exposed to view. “You may enjoy whatever freedom Lord Klann grants you,” he stated menacingly. Then he lowered his voice. “For now let it be known that open worship of this dead god is forbidden to the extent that it interferes with your obligation to the King or the operation of his forces here. You will have little time for worship, I think. You must produce a surplus of goods for His Lordship’s growing army. And in time,” he added coyly, “you will learn a new mode of worship.”

“What do you mean, sorcerer?” Michael probed angrily.

“Michael,” Flavio cautioned.

Milorad steered Mord from Michael’s outburst. “Will it be possible for a delegation from the council to meet personally with His Majesty?”

“There is no need for such a meeting. Your responsibility is clear.”

The ex-diplomat seemed a trifle offended. “We will of course maintain the same reciprocal relationship with King Klann that we held with Baron Rorka: our economic production in exchange for protection. But how did this administrative change occur?”

“That is a political affair which doesn’t concern you. Know only that Rorka is an outlaw and to harbor him or any of his men is punishable by death. Where are his city guards?”

“All seem to have fled,” Flavio replied with a shrug. “The din of battle was unmistakable. Yesterday all the guards were absent from their posts, and we assumed that they had gone to the castle themselves or fled in fear.”

“There will be a search, and I will hold you responsible for what is found.” The sorcerer paused, then said with evident pleasure, “Ah, yes, there is one more matter.” He raised his voice for all to hear. “Lord Klann has need of servants to tend his wishes. Do we have any volunteers?”

No one moved, and Mord continued gleefully, “There, you see? We have given you freedom of choice, and you’ve disdained it. Therefore, we must make the decision for you—Commander!”

Ben-Draba stared a moment, then reluctantly signaled. A handful of troops dismounted and began singling out people from the crowd to be pressed into Klann’s service. Angry outcries burst from the massed citizens, and some who had been chosen began to resist. They were beaten senseless with sword hilts and ringed by soldiers as a volley of screams issued from the onlookers.

Three young women were carried off by soldiers who roared their delight at the resistance being raised to their fondling. The father of one, a woodcutter, lunged after her captor and thudded his skull with an axe handle. The reaction was furious. Two horsemen charged the man through the crowd that sought to give him cover. Bodies were battered aside by the plunging steeds. The woodcutter was corralled. Shrieks of horror, as the mounted mercenaries spilled his brains with vicious cuts. Several unarmed men rose to his defense and were forced back by a squad of lancers as the screaming crowd broke from the square, surging in all directions.