Gonji: Red Blade from the East (22 page)

“I’m off for the lower pasture,” Strom declared.

Garth nodded his assent. “Have a care, my son,” he called after him as he departed. The smith hung the heavy file he carried on a wall peg.

“And now, what can I do for you?”

“Tora, there, is in need of shoeing, and I’d like to put him up for livery.”

“We’ll tend to his shoeing straightaway, and you’ll find my livery rates very reasonable, I think.”

“They’ll have to be,” Gonji said, fingering the depleting supply of regional currency in the kimono pocket. “Until I can make an exchange, at least.” He shook his head sadly. The smith blared a laugh, and his well-padded middle jounced slightly in rhythmic accord.

“You’ve traveled far,” Garth stated, grunting at an ache in his back. “If I’m not mistaken, you’re a soldier from a far-eastern race.”

Together they walked out. Gonji untied Tora as he spoke. “Very perceptive. You’ve already shown more intelligence than all the louts I’ve met here today.”

They strolled to the forge at the side of the smith’s house, and Garth fired it.

“Yes, I was raised a
samurai
,” Gonji said emphatically, “a member of the warrior class in the Japanese Empire. But I’m not really a soldier anymore, just a landless wanderer on a sort of quest.” Gonji seated himself on a stool near the forge, tucking one leg up under him. He thought a moment, decided to clear the air. “And I’m not one of those mercenaries, if that’s what you’ve been thinking.”

Garth stopped and smiled. “I wasn’t thinking it. But it’s good to know.”

Gonji crossed his arms and relaxed.
“Gut,”
he said. “Good. Then we can be friends,
neh
?” Both men chuckled, a hearty shared warmth that made Gonji feel comfortable for the first time since he had entered the city.

The smith performed the shoeing job while they exchanged small talk awhile. Then at Gonji’s behest Garth told what he knew of Klann’s invasion of the territory and occupation of Vedun. All the while Gonji shook his head in frank incredulity over the ease with which Klann had accomplished his purpose.

“The castle I saw on the way here looked like pretty tough pickings,” he observed thoughtfully. “And you say they captured it in a single night?”

“It seems so.” The smith shrugged.

“And then they rode in here and nobody put up a fight? You just let them in?”

Garth lowered his eyes. “We’re...peaceful people. Military affairs are not our business.” He finished beating a red-hot shoe and dipped it into a water bath. Hissing steam misted the air, and Garth had to raise his voice to speak over the rushing noise. “We must work with changes in provincial leadership. Our own city politics are enough to worry about.”

“I suppose, but—” Gonji rubbed his thigh pensively, but the smith had begun hammering again. He laid the subject aside, watching the powerful thews at work.

“Gundersen, eh?” Gonji said, eyes lifted skyward as if he were considering something. “Do you know, my burly friend, that we probably share a heritage somewhere along the ancestral line?”

Garth raised his eyebrows. “In truth? How so?”

“Mmmm.” A playful twitch danced across Gonji’s face. “Do you know what my mother called me—outside my father’s presence?”

Garth shrugged.

“Gunnar.”

“Gunnar?”
Garth’s eyes went wide with astonishment.

Gonji’s twinkled with merriment. “
Ja
, a name from the seafaring barbarians of the far north, eh? My mother was a fair-haired Norse woman, and the tale of how she came to be matched with my father is a much-told legend.”

Spitting the dust from his throat, Gonji took the last swig of tepid water from his skin.

“I can refill that for you,” Garth said, taking the empty skin. “Would you like some wine instead?”

Gonji sighed appreciatively. “My friend, you’re a life saver!”

Garth smiled and entered his shop, at the back of which was the set of rooms which served as his house. He emerged a moment later with a jug of wine and a mug, proffering these to a grateful samurai.
“Domo arigato,”
Gonji said. “Thank you very much.”

The wine was Tokay, cool and piquant, pure nectar that laved his arid throat. As he drank he watched the passers-by who quickened their pace as they caught sight of him in the shop. Some waved to Garth or called out curt, half-hearted greetings. All avoided Gonji’s gaze except one—a curly-haired man at the nearby wagonage, who kept glancing at him sullenly as he repaired the shattered spokes of a wheel. The man rather resembled the emotional mourner at the square, patently Roman in every respect. A bent and barefoot graybeard in nothing but a loincloth cackled to himself as he moved about the wagonage grounds, working with the Italian. It took Gonji a while to realize that the old man was blind.

Garth peered at the stranger cautiously as he worked. Too bad, he thought, too bad he’s not one of them. There’s much I’d like to know. Many things I could ask. Dear God—
two
circles of purpure. That can only mean—Almost funny. We’re occupied by warriors and the only warrior who comes to my shop shows a willingness to talk and yet can tell me nothing of Klann. Just one more trial, Lord God, one more test of serenity and patience. And I accept it. But please,
please
help Lydia keep poor Michael’s temper in check. It was so terrible at the cave. Such a scene....

After a space Gonji spoke again, curiosity rising. “Who was the boy whose body I brought in?”

Garth looked up in surprise. “
You
brought him in?”

“I thought you saw.”

“Oh, no—no, I’m sorry. It was an awful thing, terrible. I was so shocked I guess I—That was Mark Benedetto, brother of a young councilman, Michael. Thank you for having the compassion to bring his body here. It’s...but poor Michael and Lydia—” His voice trailed off, troubled private thoughts showing on his face.

Gonji studied him closely.

“You must also be hungry,” Garth observed after a space. “There’ll be roast pig and fresh bread at the Provender about now.” There was genuine concern in the smith’s eyes, and Gonji nodded gratefully but then scowled.

“I’ve been there,” he said. “Eh, let’s just say that the welcoming committee and I aren’t fast friends.”

“Oh,” Garth breathed. He brightened and slapped Gonji on the shoulder. The oriental had long since grown accustomed to these physical displays of Western affability, but he still liked them not at all. “Then when my sons return you’ll join us at our meal,” the smith offered cheerfully.

Gonji bowed. “You are most kind.”

“Not at all. You say you’re on a quest. What is it that you seek so far from home?”

Gonji smiled. “I’m not really sure, I suppose,” he said wistfully. “Only a name perhaps, or the seed of someone’s thoughts, breathed into the wind to plant itself wherever it might be carried.” He listened to the dwindling echo of his words, the poet in him smiling with satisfaction at their sound.

“It’s something of a story,” Gonji began. “You know, as the firstborn son of a powerful
daimyo
, a warlord, I’m heir to lands and troops and money....” An ironic headshake. “I was assimilated into my father’s disciplined culture from infancy. But from my Western mother I inherited...other things. I was always noted for my restlessness of spirit, my adventurous ways. It seemed I was always being punished for some new indiscretion I couldn’t understand in my heart. Oh, I learned my lessons well and think I possess my father’s fighting skill, but I often hurt him with my waywardness.

“And then there were the bitter rivalries with my half-brothers, his sons by his concubines.
(the lie again—the simplifying lie!)
They were always jockeying for the preferred position. Catching me in indiscretions. Currying my father’s favor. They knew one of them would become heir in the event of my—how do you say it? dispossession?—or death. I was always looking for ways to confound them, to show them up with my superior education and training.”

“I know something of that,” Garth interjected. “My son Lorenz—coming back today from business in Buda—such a thing for him to come back to—” He waxed grim, but the mood passed quickly. “But what I meant to say is he tends to show off his learning to the others at times. It can be a problem for a father.”

Gonji sighed and shifted position. “Well, my father had his share, and I hope yours don’t have the same end.” He paused, looked hard at Garth. “Let’s just say there were violent circumstances at last, and I had no choice but to follow my wanderlust.

“Before I left the Empire, though, I visited an old Shinto priest, my former teacher and a good friend. He used to tell me that someday I would meet with one who was very much like me—a misfit in spirit and birth, one who pondered the mysteries of the universe as I did. On this last occasion I found him on his deathbed. Before I could relate what had happened, he nodded as if he understood. Then with his last breath he set me toward the West and told me to seek out this being who might guide my destiny, someone he called...the Deathwind.”

Gonji had made this last disclosure purposely dramatic, and he caught the subtle tensing of the smith’s muscles.

“Have you ever heard the name?” Gonji asked.

Garth wiped the sweat from his wide brow and spoke casually. “
Ja
, maybe. It’s a legend sometimes spoken of by superstitious folk. Has it really traveled so far? Even your homeland is hardly more than a legend here.”

“No one there ever spoke it to me but this single dying priest. For ten years since, I’ve followed its trail. I’ve traveled through hostile mainland territories, barbaric wastelands, backward mountain regions—I even succeeded in acquiring a legendary name of my own along the way—the Red Blade from the East. Ever heard it spoken?”

“I don’t think so.”

Gonji was disappointed. “No matter. Anyway, I continued pushing west, learning languages, probing into folklore, soldiering in many armies, teaching battle skills.” He sighed expansively. “The name Deathwind was meaningless to most I met. In some northern places people who had heard it had another name for it—Grejkill, the Beast with the Soul of a Man. But they said no
living
person would or could guide me to it.

“In Burgundy I told my tale to a party of monks on a pilgrimage. They argued among themselves before admitting that they knew something of the Deathwind legend and sent me backtracking eastward.

“A few weeks ago I happened on a mad hermit, bald and blind in one eye. He tried to kill me with his staff when I brought up the Deathwind. That, eh, sort of convinced me that I was nearing my destination.” Garth hissed a breathy laugh at this, and Gonji smiled. “I had to disarm him and swear on my honor that I had been sent to seek out this elusive being by priests. And I didn’t lie: This Deathwind seems to have revealed himself only to holy men. But the hermit sent me here, to Vedun.”

“I’m sorry you’ve come to a dead end.”

“Not a dead end maybe,” Gonji responded. He recalled something. “Do you know a man named Simon Sardonis?”

Garth stiffened, and the impact of the name was unmistakable. He affected indifference as his eyes met Gonji’s. “I don’t think so. Is he supposed to be from around here?”

“I don’t know. I was given a message to convey to him by a...mutual acquaintance.” He searched the smith’s face for a reaction. It came in the form of a howl of pain as Garth leaped back from the forge, shaking his burned hand.

“Ah, what a clumsy oaf!” Garth cried. “
Danke, danke
—thank you,” he said as Gonji brought him a cloth with which to wrap it. “A smith gets a lot of these.”

Garth tested his hand, to his satisfaction. Gonji refilled his mug and seated himself at the edge of a workbench. The smith went back to work on Tora. A moment later a flicker of remembrance lit Gonji’s face and he went to his saddlebags, fishing out the broken halves of the gift sword.

“Do you think this can be repaired?”

Garth stepped from the forge and examined the pieces. “I think so.”

“It has a great deal of sentimental value to me.”

“If you’ll pardon me,” Garth said, “this is a brittle grade of hastily forged steel. I don’t think a warrior should depend on it much.”

“This isn’t a fighting weapon,” Gonji corrected, the apt observation not escaping him. “It’s an ornamental piece given to me by my mother shortly before she died.”

Gonji pulled his spare
katana
from the saddle and unsheathed the weapon for Garth’s inspection. “Now
this
,” the samurai said proudly, “is a weapon.” He turned the blade over to Garth.

The smith made a couple of smooth arcing passes through the air with the curved blade and nodded. Gonji studied his movements.

“Ja,”
Garth said with no little admiration, “it’s beautifully balanced. It seems to cut the air with its own energy. Nicely cast...fine grip...and a magnificent edge. But—so
light.
Will it hold up under stress?”