Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel. T. C. Rypel
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cur!” Gonji grated in his throat, shooing the animal away in not altogether dignified fashion. “Lift your leg on my swords and someone will be feasting on your carcass tonight!”
When his companions’ laughter had subsided, he reestablished his lost harmony and rubbed his reddening face. But he couldn’t help laughing himself and was pleased to see that he had lifted them from their timid sipping. Removing his daisho—his matched set of swords—from his obi, Gonji set them at his right side against the bench seat. He ran his hands under the slack left in the sash by their removal.
“Now I’ve got room,” he said, sniffing deeply with eyes closed at the tempting whiffs of meaty aroma seeping from the kitchens. “Looks like no monsters were invited tonight, anyway,” he added.
The others’ snickers subsided quickly, their memory of the cretin giant still poignant.
“Wonder who’s going to be seated at our table,” Gonji thought aloud. “Oh, Garth—did the hostlers tell you why you were invited?”
Garth shook his head glumly. “No, I don’t know.... It isn’t for smith work,” he added haltingly.
Tumo will be feasting tonight, too.... Gonji shook his head and cleared his throat, was about to say something pleasant when the shriek came from a nearby table of mercenaries.
“How dare you!” a woman shouted. “I’m a personal servant of the king!” She raised a silver serving tray over her head like a bludgeon.
The man who had given her offense raised his eyebrows and leaned back in surprise, his companions roaring their mirth.
“She’s a fiery one, eh?”
“Draw on her, Merwyn!”
The woman launched into a tirade, berating the soldier’s impropriety, shaking a petite fist in his face all the while. A Llorm regular finally rose from his table and interposed himself between them, dismissing the girl and bending low to admonish the drunken wastrel.
“There’s the hoyden,” Garth said sullenly.
Gonji looked to him questioningly.
“Wilfred’s Genya,” Flavio clarified.
“Ah, so desu—so that’s the lady fair!” Gonji said amusedly.
And then she was heading for their table, adjusting her hair and skirts primly as she pattered over with restored dignity. They all rose to greet her. She looked to be in her late teens, her short stature emphasizing a ripe figure. Her hair was curly, soft and dark, and it frolicked about her shoulders as she moved pertly, calling attention to a cherubic face and sparkling dark eyes. A set of baby-fat dimples framed full red lips that were formed in a tempting pucker. It should not have been surprising that she was much pursued by the young men of Vedun, for nature had fashioned her for allure. But it seemed to Gonji, as the men rose from their table to greet her, that her charm was not without guile and artifice.
“Oh, they’re such animals, these soldiers,” she said primly. Then she at once melted into wide-eyed innocence. “Oh, Papa Flavio, thank God you’re here! We’ve been simply dying inside, all of us, to know what’s become of Vedun.”
She bent and kissed his hand lightly, her own small white hand fluttering at her bodice modestly. “How are my parents?” She spoke to the Elder in his native Italian.
“They’re in good health,” Flavio replied, smiling benignly, “and they asked me to convey their love, as have all the servants’ families. My heart is heavy, though, for Lottie Kovacs. I’m afraid her father....”
“Yes, we’ve heard—oh, Blessed Mother, what a terrible, terrible thing! Lottie’s crushed, absolutely crushed. But at least Richard is here to comfort her. But dear Signore Flavio, you will try to gain us our freedom tonight, won’t you—?”
And Flavio offered his cautiously optimistic assurances that he would seek the hostages’ release. But almost before he had finished Genya had shifted her attention to Garth.
“Herr Gundersen, how is Wilfred? I miss him so—oh my!” Quickly dismissing her startled expression at Garth’s bruises, she stood on tiptoes to kiss his cheek, and after a moment’s hesitation the burly smith self-consciously bent to oblige her.
“He’s fine,” Garth said. “Stubborn as always.” He averted his eyes from hers, rather rudely, it seemed to the others.
“Bitte, tell him to have a care. It’s so dreadful around here these days. The castle is full of dangers. The soldiers are everywhere. Monsters and giants roam the grounds freely. Have you seen them?” She was whispering with awe now.
The delegates all muttered their agreement. And then, before their voices had ceased to echo, Genya was speaking with Milorad, making a show of interest in his and Anna’s well being in the new social circumstances.
All the while Gonji could feel the girl’s consuming curiosity about him, though she never once regarded him directly.
She was an operator, of that he was sure. Good fortune with this one, friend Wilfred.... He watched with keen interest how adroitly Genya shifted from dignity to respect to affection to anxiety, coyly affected innocence lubricating the transitions.
Then she was through with Milorad and looking just past Gonji, eyes dropping diffidently floorward. He decided to accept the invitation.
“I’m Gonji Sabatake, a friend of Wilfred.” He bowed slightly, and she curtsied, eyelids fluttering closed. “He asked me to give this to you, a token of his undying affection.” He handed her the blossom from Wilf.
Her lips parted silently, and for the first time she seemed touched by genuine emotion.
“Danke—thank you,” she whispered.
And then her breath caught in her throat, and her eyes had suddenly outgrown her face, fear rimming them as she looked over Gonji’s shoulder. The others were all staring.
Gonji turned, and a chill shot through his spine. He was gazing into the masked face of Mord. The sorcerer’s diamond-hard black eyes appeared to be smiling with private amusement.
Gonji bowed, and a long moment later the magician returned the gesture, bending forward slowly and dreamily, like a reed under water.
“We’ve...met?” Mord asked in his murky basso profundo voice.
Gonji’s nape prickled with fine pinpoints of tension. His palms were cold and moist, but his face betrayed nothing of it.
“Not unless you’ve been to Honshu,” he replied evenly.
The sorcerer’s gleaming filigreed mask tilted almost imperceptibly, as if the arch reply had thrown him off guard. Then his piercing ophidian eyes appeared to shift, to cloud over with a dull film, to pulsate hideously as if about to burst their sockets.
And an instant later Gonji was gazing with barely disguised shock into the fiery red orbs of the wyvern.
Cholera.
Gonji’s face grew hot; his senses reeled with an instant’s indecision. He could feel his companions’ breathless anticipation. Against his leg—the solid comfort of his sword hilts where they leaned. Then—
“All kneel!”
Gonji slowly joined the jostling, clinking throng in dropping to one knee, striving to control his bewilderment, to plan, to reestablish his wa, his harmony of spirit....
“Know ye the righteous liege lord of the Isle of Akryllon and all its possessions, Successor to its throne, Preserver of its heritage, Supreme Commander of the Akryllonian Royalist Forces.... Know ye King Klann, Him Who Is Called the Invincible!”
And in the reverent silence that had fallen during the heraldic pronouncement, it seemed that nothing had moved or stirred the air.
And then the legendary King Klann was among them, and all eyes were on him. All eyes save Gonji’s.
Gonji