Gonji: Red Blade from the East (32 page)

Flavio shrugged weakly, then squared his shoulders. “If it is the will of the council, I must admit that I can see no other course of action.”

“What about the murders? the kidnapped slaves?” Phlegor persisted.

Flavio rubbed his hands together, his head bobbing with an inner resolve. “I shall appeal to Klann for an audience, and we shall seek redress for the crimes and the return of those conscripted into Klann’s service.”

“And if he refuses,” Phlegor retorted, his voice edged with menace, “we’ll get our own redress.” The guild leader yanked a hatchet from his belt and raised it over his head, where it gleamed in the torchlight. A round of grunted assents lurched from the throats of his supporters.

Baron Rorka shook his head gravely. “We have a plan, such as it is, and we will follow it. Remember: order, organization. We are one or we are nothing, nothing but carrion. We will have back what is ours, all in good time. Do you think the great flying dragon will fall from the sky because of your blind rage? Do you know what he can do?” He considered something, thought the time was right to add it to the grim picture. “And the flying monster has an ally—

“I have seen a giant.”

His words had the anticipated effect. A jumble of anxious outcries pressed him for an explanation.

“Another familiar of the damned sorcerer?”

“Perhaps,” Rorka answered. “I heard him call it by its name—
Tumo.
Tumo, he called, and this massive brute scaled the wall, smashed my men like insects.”

Had the giant been there himself, he could scarcely have had more telling effect on the council. An aura of despair descended over the conclave. Some people crossed themselves. Even Phlegor seemed to pale as he considered the heft of his hatchet.

Rorka rethought his approach. He had been too dramatic in the disclosure. Despondency was surely as dreadful an enemy as the usurpers themselves. But how did one tactfully deal with the recollection of men crushed and gouged; the wyvern raining his unholy saliva and excrement, the stench of seared flesh mingling with that of the beast’s foul ichor; men losing arms, legs, eyes; faces ruined, torsos rent, limbs shattered by axe and sword, pike and staff...?

But despite the pain and horror of the memory, he let a tinge of mirth creep into his eyes and added:

“It is...not so big a giant as others I’ve encountered in my time.” He chortled and was joined by others. The chatter resumed gradually.

What am I saying?
Rorka wondered. Not so big a giant—? What utter nonsense, in so modern an age, to be discussing the relative sizes of giants! Things are changing so fast these days that one can hardly trust his memory of events he lived. When was the battle—two nights ago? Only two nights? Was this Tumo a giant at all? It all happened so swiftly. The three Dobrovny ogres—the hideous brothers who terrorized the mountains all those years ago—were they ogres in truth? Were they really so colossal as we tell today? And now with this simple bravado statement I’ve appeased a cavern full of adults—look at them! Eva—God rest your soul—you were always right: How like children the common folk are! How they need an aristocracy to guide their ways!

“Milord Baron,” Roric said, self-consciously stroking his scar, “haven’t you Magyar kin who might help?”

“Such kin I have, but helpful kin—?” The baron shook his head disconsolately. “Think what you are asking: for Magyar power to align itself with Hapsburg power—We may as well invite the Turks up here also, and then the three can settle their differences by thrashing Klann!”

A few knowing laughs sprouted amid general nervous tittering.

“No, my cousins will not intercede on our behalf while half of you owe allegiance to the Roman Church.”

“So what is to be done,” Roric concluded for all, “we must do ourselves, then.”

“Yes,” Rorka agreed.

“We
can
win?” came a voice from the rear in Italian.

Rorka sat down hard, placed his hands on his knees, and told them what they needed to hear.

“Yes...if all do their part...we can do what we need to do.” But deep inside him, from that secret place where his soul repaired when it wished no truck with affairs of leadership, came the fervent prayer that it should never come to pass.

“We
must
win,” Michael said bitterly.

“
If
the worst shall happen,” Flavio added firmly.

“Amen,” Milorad appended.

“But it
will
happen,” Tralayn said, “and we
will
prevail.”

All at once Ignace Obradek stood up and cackled in toothless glee, whooping and swinging his fists.

“It’s gonna be just like the old days, ain’t it, Zoltan?” the blind man shouted in the Polish of his youth. “Just like the days when old Vlad the Impaler used to skewer ’em in the streets! No invader had a chance then,
nyeh
? And remember, Zoltan, how we used to run ’em down in the mountains? Remember the red dragon we cornered in the valley and tilted at for five days and nights? Would’ve taken two of my wagons just to haul him back, it would!”

Most of the listeners had taken to examining their shoes and scratching sudden itches. Like most men, the men of Vedun were uncomfortable with infirmity and senility. Ignace had been addressing Rorka as “Zoltan”—Rorka’s father, a former Baron, under whom Ignace had many years ago been a cavalry lancer.

Rorka smiled benignly. “Yes, my loyal friend, those were great days,” he said sympathetically, thinking of the dragon tale he had heard many times at his father’s knee.

Paolo Sauvini eased his sightless master back into his seat. Paolo affected nonchalance, but he could feel the sneers. He respected the old man’s knowledge and had learned to like him, but Ignace’s senility caused him no end of discomfiture. He bore the insults of the cruel sullenly and with little response. Like Wilfred Gundersen, he knew that someday he’d be engaged in something more glorious than his present trade. He lacked only the chance.

“It is done, then,” Tralayn said. “We are committed. Mind you to keep this business in confidence. Speak of it in secret to those you can trust. There are harlots and drunkards with wagging tongues—you know those of whom I speak. And I hardly need caution you against strangers. When it is time to raise the militia, you’ll receive the word. Go to your homes. Pray for strength, for courage. Remember that Mord, the Ancient One, is our greatest enemy here. He would see this city razed for all time, for he is the servant of the Fallen One. Do not fear him. Do not fear his monsters or his mask that conceals the Mark of the Beast. Remember that God has promised His Deliverer, one who will make the enemy pale at his mention.”

There was shuffling and the rolling murmur of voices in several languages as the gathering rose to leave.

“Please,” Flavio said, “make yourselves comfortable in my home until it’s safe to travel the streets. Then you’d best leave by twos and threes in case you are stopped and questioned.”

As the crowd moved slowly up the stairs and through the concealed doorway to the catacomb, a knot of well-wishers ushered the baron into an alcove to chat. Tralayn seized the opportunity to speak with Michael and Flavio in private.

“I’ll be off with the baron in a moment,” Tralayn said to Michael conspiratorially. “Quickly now—you had to break the chains?”

Michael breathed the sigh of the weary. “Our smith does good work.”

“We can only hope Mord’s foul magicks can learn nothing from the key.”

“Shall I have Garth repair them?” Michael asked, fastening his frock coat.

“No, leave them broken.”

“What? But the next—”

“Yes,” Tralayn cut in. “He does not bend easily to God’s will.”

Flavio looked pained. “Is it wise to meddle so?”

Tralayn closed her eyes, considered. “I’m not sure, dear friend, but we will need him.”

“I pray we do not.”

“I told him about Mark,” Michael said with morbid satisfaction.

Flavio spoke in a sharp whisper, “No good can come of a vengeful spirit, Michael.”

“Shouldn’t they know about him?” Michael asked with a nod toward the others.

“Slowly, Michael,” Tralayn cautioned. “Flavio is right. You’re too eager for the wrong kind of action.”

“Not even the baron?”

“We swore an
oath
,” Flavio enjoined. “It’s for
him
to decide.”

Garth returned down the stairs without Lorenz and came to them, a wariness in his expression.

“I have only a moment,” the smith said. “Lorenz is too clever to outwit for long. His questions are snaring. But I must speak to you about the stranger in my home.”

“The oriental,” Tralayn observed.

“The one who brought in Mark’s body,” Michael added.

“Yes. He’s inquiring after Simon Sardonis.”

They were all taken aback. “Indeed?” Tralayn said.

“He says he has a message for him.”

“From whom?”

“He won’t say. But he toys with the knowledge and makes me very edgy. What shall I do about him?”

“We can’t trust him,” Michael said flatly.

“No,” Tralayn agreed, “but he bears watching. Try to find out what he really knows, but have a care, Garth.”

The brawny smith nodded just as the shouts exploded in the house above. They all froze an instant, and then Flavio led the surge toward the stairs. When he was halfway up, Milorad appeared in the doorway, eyes wide and hands a-flutter.

“There’s—there’s
shooting
outside!”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Mord was bent over the puzzling key found on the boy in the forest when the first arrow struck the wyvern.

The sorcerer hissed at the sudden sharp pain, his right arm lashing out unbidden, propelled by the invisible force. He could feel his familiar’s distress across the distance. He went straightaway to the raised stone slab at the center of the chamber and lay supine on it. By the time the second shaft had struck the flying beast’s belly, causing the sorcerer’s body to react with the impact, Mord’s astral presence was well on its way.

He entered the creature as it swung low over the dark spires and rooftops of Vedun, searching for its tormentor. The wyvern’s tiny subservient brain released control to its master. Mord’s mind became that of the wyvern; his eyes became its eyes. He felt the familiar giddiness of the flight sensation first, but then the agony of the arrow wound took hold. He blared a mighty shriek of challenge; he couldn’t believe that anyone here had dared attack the wyvern.

The creature’s senses had limited range, with one exception: though it was color blind, its sight was remarkable.

He called upon the wyvern’s dull memory. The attacker was a man in overcast-toned garb, his head swathed in nightshade wrappings, his weapons lashed to his back.

There was one sure way to track him down if he remained in the city streets. It would cost Mord dearly in mana, in metaphysical power, until the next invocation. He debated the cost, and his arrogant rage cast the deciding vote.

The wyvern began to fade, to become transparent. Its substance spread wide on the wings of the wind, extended to nearly half the width of the city. A watcher would have perceived it as a passing wraith, nothing more. To Mord’s vantage the city became filmy layers of shadow upon shadow, a land of gray smoke with vague contours. But in this manner the city was combed quickly and efficiently, and Mord’s eyes were the eyes of the wind.

There!—below—a man in dingy tunic and breeches with swords at his back. He stood at the wall of a sewage culvert, throwing something in. Was this the one? His face was not masked. And there was no bow among his weapons. Still, he seemed familiar....

Soundlessly Mord regathered the creature’s substance on a rooftop behind the warrior, clung there and watched. The man turned.

It was a slant-eyed barbarian, an oriental. Now a still deeper memory welled up—monks burning—the monastery orchard—What was this barbarian’s connection?

The man’s face registered fear, the same fear Mord had seen so often before. His mind smiled in lazy amusement. But then: something else—defiance. The warrior drew his swords and struck a defensive posture, moving laterally along the culvert wall.

The wyvern’s wings unfurled, and Mord caused it to shriek a strident war cry. The oriental seemed unmoved. His eyes flared with passion born of courage or stupidity. Perhaps both.

Mord lifted the creature into the air, hovered, the burning juices roiling in its throat glands, its bowels tensed to emit their excrement at his command....

But wait.... Yes. Yes, he would destroy this one in a most horrible fashion. But all in good time. First he might be useful. If this was indeed the bold one who attacked the wyvern, he might be just the sort of rebellious spirit that would help bring this city to self-destruction. And what was a bit of pain and indignity suffered in the accomplishment of the Dark Lord’s purpose: to see this stronghold of the once omnipotent God bathed in blood and baked by unholy fire?