Gonji: Red Blade from the East (9 page)

A tall, gaunt highwayman in subdued attire and a moth-eaten slouch hat drew up beside Gonji. The oriental’s eyes flared a threat, but the other turned and faced the opposing contingent. He drew a pistol and aimed it at the second Mongol’s head. Uneasy looks betrayed faltering resolve.

Navárez and Esteban sensed the opportunity to bound between the mismatched sides in the stand-off, and a great relief swelled Gonji’s insides.

Reprieve. Again. But the perverse traces of
bushido
training chafed inside, only half appeased.

Gonji replaced his sword and bowed to his unforeseen benefactor, smiling slightly but gratefully. One was properly curt and respectful, never fawning. The tall man wiped his brow with the slate-gray slouch, pursed his lips and nodded in quiet satisfaction.

Navárez was pushing men back, calming them, the sycophant Esteban dogging his steps. The captain advised with snarling arrogance that if any blood was to be spilled in this camp,
he
would do the spilling. Gonji cast him a scornful glance, then sauntered back to the serving line to refill a plate.

“How ‘bout some o’ this stew fer that bugger—that’ll bring ‘im around!” Jocko was calling to the two men who were helping the injured Mongol to his feet. They paid him no heed, and the mule packer’s raucous laughter rose to the skies. He leapt about and clapped his hands like a drunken gnome, kicking at the casks in his mirth.

Gonji found a quiet spot under the pines fringing the camp and sat down to his meal. Night had fallen, layer upon layer, during the course of the incident, and he found the thickening gloom of the camp’s perimeter somehow more comforting than the bonfire near which most of the men drew. He was glad for Jocko’s churlish good humor, which cut through the sinister muting of the campfire banter.

He knew he was being discussed.

The tall man who had sided with Gonji sat alone under the trees at the far end of the glade, his back to the camp as he sipped his ale. Gonji hadn’t noticed the warrior before, but he wasn’t surprised: Loners who drifted into mercenary camps generally made themselves scarce. One simply steered clear of them out of respect for whatever private misery they suffered. And although Gonji ached for pleasant conversation, he left him to his solitude.

Gonji turned away from his view of the unfortunate belly-wound victim, who had begun to moan pathetically. He thought melancholy thoughts, his spirit at low ebb.

Another compromise. Again I let a man walk away from me after insulting me to my face.
Hai
, but he’s not walking very well, as far as I can see! He’ll think of me whenever he feels his belly in the next few days, that’s sure. I should have lopped off the fool’s head. Him and all his gibbering ape friends. I wish they’d start something right now—Come on, you bastards, I’ll drop you like.... No, fool, you’ll do nothing. Just like before, just like in Spain and France. You’ll let them squat on your honor and you’ll strut away with a great show of manliness because it isn’t worth dying for, isn’t that what they say here? Honor means nothing, does it?
Bushido
is a joke to you,
neh,
samurai?
Neh?
Samurai—Hah! You’re nothing. Nothing but a dung-eating
ronin
, a landless insect, a dishonored beast who can’t even stay duty-bound to himself, so he plays at duty for every scum who tosses him a filthy bag of gold! My spirit is crushed by karma. What will become of me? I’m just like the rest of the dregs on this squalid continent, a filthy barbarian—why why why? I preach
bushido
and pretend to live by it but it’s a lie, all a lie. I’m nothing but a half-breed
ronin
in whom the ugly half holds full sway—Mother, did you birth me for this? Why? I hate my heritage here and yet.... Yet it’s all I have left, isn’t it? Funny. I kill a man I felt honor-bound to kill
(her sword arcs)
and it was right and fitting at the time and—gods!—it destroyed my life
(I’m bleeding)
in the land I love
(she raises it again)
and then I come to this land of pestilence and monsters and hunger and
(she is samurai)
death where they perversely believe the life of every louse-ridden beggar has value
(she weeps)
and I let a man spit in my food and walk away
(she guards his body)
because there will be consequences to pay for killing him—what honor is there in this land? What is my lot here? I spurn the things that should have meaning to me and seek meaning in the meaningless
(she hates me now, hates me).
Oh, you’re a fine samurai, you are, Gonji-san! Old Todo, if you’re dead, I pray your restless spirit wanders elsewhere! Or if you’ve become a viper in rebirth, as your enemies swore you would, then tonight I’ll be swelling up with venom! I’m just like them, like all of them. The good are dead, and I live on so I must be one of the bad,
neh
? Wonderful, splendid—the majestic poet-warrior from the shimmering paradise has come to save you from yourself, O Europe! When they’ve seen enough of my sword they’ll no doubt make me field commander of this grand army. I’m probably lucky for these bastard Mongols; at least the others have seen orientals in this camp. Oh yes, it’s made things very easy for me here, hasn’t it? More enemies and more dung-filled duty and—aahhhh! Who cares anymore? Karma,
neh
? Karma and karma and karma, all is karma. I live for myself and if I try hard enough I’ll learn to accept it. There. Finish.
Cholera-
pox on all of it! Navárez, you bastard, I offer you my worthless duty; O King Klann, my liege, I tip my now empty goblet—which will soon be refilled, not to fear!—I tip it to your idiotic plans; and to you, O Mord, Sorcerer Most Sublime, I pledge my blistered backside. May yours ache you as mine does me.

Gonji spat noisily. He pushed himself up and stretched easily from side to side. Ambling over to the wine casks, he was glad for the velvet blackness and bonfire glare that hid the sullen eyes watching as he refilled his cup. Seeing the pregnant moon’s glowing ring in the sky, he judged that it probably meant rain; he hoped so for no particular reason.

Making his way over to his saddle, he noticed that the tall man now reclined near Gonji’s bundled belongings. He brightened a bit. Certainly he at least owed the man a word of gratitude; failing his bold entry into the confrontation, Gonji might be a tad heavier now from the weight of the pistol balls in his carcass.

He nodded a greeting, and the lanky highwayman tipped his hat in response. Gonji made himself comfortable and sipped his dark wine awhile, gazing at the angry stars that glowered at a gently swaying pine ballet.

Gonji grew wistful. He thought of
sake
and cherry blossoms, of his noble parents and his favorite horse in the Province, of friends whose faces were forgotten, of Reiko....

“Have you been with this bunch long?” Gonji asked suddenly without thinking or facing the tall man. He had hoped the other would speak first and felt vaguely as if he had lost a game in breaking the silence. He didn’t realize for a long moment that he had spoken in Japanese.

He tried again in Spanish. No reply.

He was a trifle piqued as he looked over to the gaunt warrior. The man pushed up the brim of his slouch with one finger, and something—sadness, Gonji thought—softened his eyes. He had been tugging absently at a small wooden crucifix that depended from a leather thong around his neck. He placed it inside his shirt.

“No
Español.”

Gonji considered something but then snorted and shook his head when he remembered his bad manners.

“Gonji Sabatake,” he said with a thumb jerk.

“Hawkes,” the man replied. “Hawkes.” Gonji grinned. An Englishman. Of course. He looked and dressed like one. Gonji tried out his execrable French. Hawkes shook his head. He tried Latin, High German. No luck. Frustrated, Gonji motioned for Hawkes to take a stab at communication.

“English,” he said.

Uh-oh.

Gonji grew languid, sank resignedly into his bedroll. Most of the few English words he knew were not addressed to a friend. Hawkes made another half-hearted try at a strange language—he supposed it was Dutch, from the sound. Gonji sighed and shook his head. Hawkes nestled back and pulled his hat brim low.

A nighthawk shrilled, and somewhere a wolf howled long and plaintively. Gonji tossed off the rest of the wine and felt his eyeballs begin to swim from the spreading warmth.

It took him a long time to summon the courage and sincerity, but finally Gonji found what he was sure were the right English words and took a deep breath.

“Thank...you,” he said haltingly, lifting himself up on an elbow. But Hawkes was already asleep. And Gonji’s words echoed in his ears mockingly, mingling with the Englishman’s snoring.

It took a long time for Gonji to drift off into fitful slumber.

CHAPTER FOUR

Pistols exploded in a ragged volley that thundered through the pass.

Soldiers and mounts, spilled by the impact, threw the rest of the troop into rearing and screaming chaos. The commander bolted free of the pack and shouted orders, reassembling the stunned party as the bellowing line of bandits descended upon them. The brigands’ line was spread thin but bunched at the ends to deny retreat. The ambush had been well planned.

Hemmed into the mountain cleft as they were, the outnumbered soldiers could only stand their ground. The commander urged courage. He saw that only two men had been felled by the gunfire and made a swift decision. Howling their battle cry and drawing steel, he waved to his doughty troops and charged the blockading bunch at the southern end of the pass.

These devils would know they’d been in a fight.

* * * *

Navárez closed the adventurers’ charge with a shout and massed his men from the north end to swarm down in pursuit of the madly rushing soldiers.

The mercenaries hooted and growled with bloodlust, swords whirling above their heads. Navárez rode with gritted teeth, and as he neared the soldiers’ backs he scanned them closely: light half-armor; gray surcoats and breeches; and, unmistakably, they were flying the colors he had been alerted to.

No quarter for these—the way Navárez liked it.

At the southern end of the pass sat the Japanese barbarian, hand on sword hilt, reeking confidence. He was flanked by half a dozen men who had been plainly impressed by him since his arrival. They were arranged in a V, the Japanese boldly at the point. Already he was assuming a position of command. That was bad; the captain didn’t like owing his life to
any
man, less still to a conceited bastard like this barbarian.

But then the soldiers’ color guard charged front and center and leveled his lance at the samurai.

His arrogant display would see him skewered. And that was good.

Navárez and his pack of five and twenty bore down on the haunches of the slowing, jostling troop. The rear half of their broken column wheeled to face the brunt of the charge. Grim desperation etched their dust-streaked brows; swords were smartly drawn in unison.

Navárez caught just a glimpse of the lancer barreling in on the Japanese, saw Gonji’s horse lurch impossibly to slip the charge, watched the samurai twist the soldier from his mount.

Then Navárez’ cutlass crashed into an upraised buckler, and he found himself slashing and parrying for his life.

The soldier he engaged was powerful and disciplined in the saddle. His blade was heavier, and Navárez’ repeatedly glanced off ineffectually. Outmuscled, he was hard-pressed to stave off the other’s hammering steel, and the buckler deflected his own efforts at attack.

Two free companions dropped nearby, shrieking and clutching at themselves. Horses bit and kicked, panicked and bolted in the clanging, shouting fray, and four men and mounts toppled like dominoes just to Navárez’ rear.

The captain blocked a deadly slash, then winced as a pistol barked in his left ear. His steed lurched and whinnied, disengaging him from his foe. A soldier, rocked by the pistol ball’s impact, was dashed to the ground and trampled.

Navárez roared, steadied his horse and spurred it ahead. Another mercenary flanked the captain’s formidable foe just as the soldier’s errant blow cracked into the skull of Navárez’ horse. He fell hard, scrambled away from the pounding hooves, and limped to the side of the trail.

By the time he was able to gather himself and take stock of the battle, it was over.

The tangled mass of flesh and steel began to sort itself out. Shouts of victory issued from the Free Company, who raised their weapons and shoved one another, comparing gory blades.

Julio pranced up to Navárez with a vicious grin. The captain stared barbs, awaiting the sarcastic comment that never came. A shame. He still held a grudge against this brigand and would have liked a reason to dispatch him, however thin their numbers.