Gonji: Fortress of Lost Worlds. T.C. Rypel
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chuckling. “And now I see that escape for you is also impossible; so you’ll no longer be needing your horse.”
He grabbed up his staff and ran toward Tora. Seeing Gonji draw his katana and race after him, he let out a whoop and pole-vaulted over the anxious steed.
“Hah-hah! I don’t need a horse—stupid, noisy, nervous animals! I just wanted to show you how altogether impotent you are.”
Gonji stamped toward him, sword clenched vertically for a two-handed strike. His mind reeled, trying to make sense of the madman’s mania, and thought cost him reflex. Moon somersaulted over him and struck him a passing blow, high on the back, with his staff.
Moon alighted, squared up, and they faced each other, came to engagement. The thief executed a series of feints, then a rapid high-low-high spearing attack. Gonji slapped the staff aside easily each time. He timed the next strike and parried, slashing the staff aside with a vicious counterattack, then whirled into a figure eight of glinting steel that drove Moon backward.
With a derisive titter, the thief somersaulted backward, using the staff for leverage, then sprang into a low lunge that Gonji leapt over. The samurai moved to attack an inside line as the long staff arced around. His foot slipped in the snow, but he managed to deflect the circling blow aimed at his midsection. They clashed and clacked, neither gaining advantage.
“You fence pretty well for a man who insists on keeping both hands on his sword,” Moon taunted.
Two circling parries chipped wood from the staff. Then a sudden underhand snap of the Sagami chopped six inches from the staff’s end, leaving a sharpened point.
Moon brayed a laugh and blew him a kiss. “So be it, then—you die by your own device.”
But when Moon lunged, Gonji snicked out his ko-dachi with an eye-blurring movement, catching and turning the now deadly staff in a twisting X-block with both swords. He drove its point into the snow, and his one-handed swipe with the Sagami forced Moon to release his grip or lose his head. The samurai bore down on the now unarmed, backstepping thief with crossed blades.
“Too late,” Moon gasped. “You’ve lost anyway—look.”
Horsemen ringed them in, descending from the hills. They bore no recognizable colors or uniform. Even in the dark it was clear that this was some mercenary bunch. They must have been forty in number, but they were still quite distant and spaced too far apart to close the trap.
What sort of cavalry technique is that? Gonji found himself wondering.
“I’ll let you ride with me,” the samurai declared, “but if you offer me one—”
“You still don’t understand, do you, fool?” Moon said, laughing, backing away in the direction of the house. “I know the way out of here. You don’t. You can’t escape them. They’re the warlock’s men. You think they’ll stop for that cross you hang on your horse? The warlock doesn’t fear any symbols of the Church. Maybe they’ll let you join them—if you throw yourself on their mercies.”
Gonji untethered Tora and mounted. When he scanned the approaching band again, he had to resist an urge to rub his eyes. Had he momentarily fallen asleep? Had he been bewitched?
They were almost upon him now. No more than a hundred yards distant!
What foul sorcery—?… What horses could move so swiftly?
Their hooves seemed to touch earth, yet their advance was uncannily fast. They grew in the vision like a spreading stain upon water.
The samurai walked Tora toward the bonfire, uncertain how he would meet this final assault, dashing away the lifetime of memories that vied for audience, the juggled factors of the meaningless equation of his life. Then he abandoned all thought, which dragged the bushi down in battle, with its weight.
He decided to stand his ground before the blaze. He drew his longbow and a fletched shaft, preparing for a shot at the advancing riders. He could hear those who approached from behind—there, a second shaft would find ready nesting.
“Hold there!” the leader commanded him, trotting near, his approaching motion now normal, as though he had left sorcerous ground for that of the earth Gonji trod.
The band was composed chiefly of mercenaries, that was sure: Theirs was a motley array of weapons and garb, much as he’d seen in numerous free companies he’d ridden with and against. But three men were clad of a piece. The one who came near, as well as the pair who flanked him, wore a thin-shelled back armor of an obsolete design. There was a strange, soft shimmer to the armor. Its surface looked murky, as if encased in flat black mist. He had seen its like before…where?
The leader rode up to within ten paces, unconcerned with Gonji’s bow. He removed his burgonet. A youthful, serene face gazed into the samurai’s.
“You can put up your bow,” he said in a cultured voice. “I’m afraid you’d find it ineffectual.”
Gonji said nothing but complied, for he had by now recalled what armor this must be, and if its lore were true, the black knight’s claim would be borne out. The knight smiled and bowed curtly in gratitude.
“I represent the Archmage Domingo Malaga y Colicos,” he said, pausing before going on. “You probably know him as Domingo Negro. A terrible name, if you represent the rapacious Church.” He indicated the cross that depended from Tora’s neck.
“I represent no church,” Gonji replied evenly. “And I feel no terror.”
“Indeed?” the knight said, plainly impressed. “No terror of so many arrayed against you? Of the Moonspinner, who descends at midnight?”
Moon. Gonji briefly wondered whether the thief, if indeed he was a thief, had found a way to somersault out of this trap. But then his thoughts were otherwise engaged.
“My life has always pointed toward such an end, if it be ended here.”
The knight seemed to ponder something before speaking again. “It needn’t, you know. We’ve observed your progress for some time now. Since you first entered the valley. I’m sure you know that forces are at war here. You’ve meddled, without making clear your intentions or your sympathies.”
“I wish only to continue on my way.”
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. You’ve angered the Archmage, trifled in his business, weakened his defenses by your knowledge of their operation. You have, then, two choices: Join this mercenary company that was formed of men similarly recruited, or remain here for the imminent descent of the Moonspinner. You have little time to decide. Midnight approaches.”
“I need no time to decide,” Gonji replied steadfastly. “I am ronin. For now, I choose to serve no master. The choice reverts to you.”
The knight blinked at Gonji’s boldness. “You are an unusual warrior.”
“I am samurai. You will not find our like anywhere on this continent.”
“Your words are filled with bravado, senor…samurai. Yet I wonder if you truly understand the meaning of valor. I see that you are interested in the armor I wear. Have you ever seen armor like it? It has wonderful properties. No weapon can penetrate it.”
“I know something of this…Armor of Valor,” Gonji noted. “Like most sorcerous working, it relies heavily on the faith and courage of the user.”
“Very good,” the knight said, riding up beside Gonji with a confident demeanor. “And it has served me well, even as well as I have respected its spell. See here.” He pointed to a spot on his breastplate. “The tiny pockmark? A bold-speaking bandit’s pistol, fired from just about the distance between us now.” He let the implication hang in the air a moment.
Gonji never took his eyes from his adversary’s. “The pistol is a poor weapon to use against so worthy an armor.”
The night’s eyebrows lifted. “And do you bear a stronger weapon?”