Читать книгу Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel - T. C. Rypel - Страница 9

CHAPTER ONE

General Gorkin, the castellan, marched through the dank corridors toward the king’s chamber. He cradled his helm under a burly arm. His face had an anxious set, jaw muscles rigid.

The general turned into an arch that flanked a shadowed stone stairway, and the huge form jumped him from behind with a fierce battle cry. Gorkin uttered a broken outcry as he was wrestled to the ground. Thick arms squeezed him mightily, stole his wind. He gritted his teeth and strained to break the locked fists at his belly. Then he recognized the labored laughter at his ear.

He tautened and looked back, bewildered, into the face of King Klann.

“You’ve gone soft on us, Gorkin,” the king jested as they sorted themselves out and pushed up onto their feet.

“Sire?” Gorkin said, red-faced.

“We weren’t able to take you so readily in the past. But, then, it’s been a stretch since we’ve tilted.” The king mopped his brow with a sleeve. “But no more! Things will change around here. Yes, indeed. We’re feeling marvelous this morning, Gorkin! And how is our castellan?”

“Fit, sire,” the general said, breathing hard, “but troubled. I’ve just been out in the ward, at the practice ground. I found the—”

“Yes, so you did—you saw the free companions enjoying the run of the place, that’s what’s bothering you, eh?” Klann smiled. “Yes, it was on my order. The mercenaries have need of training just as the Llorm do. More so, no doubt. And it will keep them out of mischief. They may have the run of the ward, just so there are no firearms.”

“All right, my liege, if that is your wish.”

“That is our wish, old friend. It’s time for some changes. Time for us to shuck our reclusive image. Yo, but I’m feeling grand this morning! Tonight’s the banquet, you know.” Klann amiably slapped Gorkin on the back.

(don’t be so familiar with subordinates—it ill befits our state)

Two scullions, drawn from their tasks by the clatter in the corridor, peered around a corner at them. They goggled to see the king and castellan in such a scruffy, soiled state and hurried back to work.

Klann and Gorkin walked through the maze of corridors toward the outdoors, toward Castle Lenska’s expansive wards. They passed chambers jammed with common folk, with the thin, pale dark-haired people who were all that remained of the once proud Akryllonian island race. Hollow-eyed children of Klann’s Llorm regulars, worn and wearied by the travails of their nomadic life, wandered about the halls. Listlessly, for the most part. Of late they had seemed to be looking worse. They bowed or knelt at their beloved king’s passing. Some were yanked out of his path by scolding mothers, who were in turn admonished by Klann to let them be. He patted young heads affectionately, warmed to see them smile.

“Look at them, Gorkin,” Klann said. “They’re looking better already, I think, to be relieved of life on the road.” He sighed. “These are the important ones. They’re us...our hope and legacy...all that remains of the glory that was Akryllon.”

“Akryllon will again be glorious, my liege.”

“I wonder,” Klann responded gravely. “When was the last birth in the army?”

“Why—just last month, sire, isn’t that so?”

“It was four months ago. Think back. It was during the severe spring storm in Austria. Remember now?”

The general’s shoulders slumped. “Yes, yes, I think you’re right, sire. Time does thieve away the days of a man’s life.” He brightened. “Ananka Kel’Gana is heavy with child. Perhaps within the present moon she’ll—”

“And the child will be fatherless.”

Gorkin gulped, recalling the dragoon trampled in a recent cavalry engagement. “You’re right, sire, I had forgotten.”

They walked in silence for a space toward the inner ward behind the central keep. The general respectfully fell a half step behind his king, who walked with hands clasped at his back. Servants scurried past under the heightened attention of stewards as the king ambled by. They were in an area honeycombed with myriad chambers and living quarters, stuffed to overflowing with the families of the hereditary army. Children skittered underfoot and jostled scolding servants. Barking dogs scampered and sniffed. The banquet preparations had set the castle bustling.

Gorkin kicked a yelping hound out of the king’s way only to be reprimanded by a chuckling Klann. They broke the fixed gazes of numerous stone-faced sentries, and the general removed two of these from their posts to serve as a personal guard when the king moved out into the ward. Near a sun-drenched exit arch, Klann entered a common garderobe to relieve himself.

Then they were out in the central ward, the sun glaring off flagstones still slick from the recent rains. The ward was alive with activity and noise. At one side soldiers practiced in the training ground before the long, low dormitories that housed them. Steel and wood clashed and clacked as combatants tilted; squeaks and creaks of pulleys and quintains marked the quarter where men trained in strength and agility, attacking spinning wooden man-forms and climbing scaffold ropes.

King Klann watched the activities with informed interest, arms crossed over his chest. General Gorkin’s apprehension showed in the tight crinkles around his dark eyes; allowing the free companions so near the king was a new experience. They were encamped between the outer and middle baileys and outside the barbican, but now the king had granted them access to the training ground and castle halls with but few restrictions, and this was a dangerous practice.

As Klann himself should be the first to realize.

The king breathed deeply the arresting cooking and baking aromas issuing from the kitchens and bakehouse across the ward. Tonight they would feast as had the monarchs of old. And this place, this Transylvania, was going to be the beginning of the end of the long, weary quest. Home was in the wind. Yes, soon they would be home.

“Yes, Gorkin,” Klann began in a voice edged with resolve, “one final thrust. One more sally after Akryllon, that’s all we need. And these poor people will be home at last. Home to the land none of them have ever seen—that’s rather silly, isn’t it, Gorkin?”

“Milord?”

“To call a place home when you’ve never seen it—really seen it, lived in it?”

“No, of course not, sire. Home is home.”

“Do you see those mountains?” Klann said, sweeping an arm over the peaks of the Transylvanian Alps. “Such beauty. Such...insular comfort. We feel good about this place, Gorkin. Yes...this will be a nice, pleasant hiatus for the troops, for the families. We’ll winter here, gather strength, and—” He smiled, his eyes narrowing to twinkling slits. “—I think we’ll be reliving some past glories, if our intelligence is accurate.”

A little boy scooted past behind them. Klann, noticing the motion, halted him in Kunan, the Akryllonian common language.

“Come here, little scalawag. Your king commands you.”

The boy was about five, dark-haired and anemic like all the others. Mouth agape, eyes large and liquid and guilt-tinged, he approached the king tentatively, hands behind his back.

“What have you there?” Klann asked. “Come now, let’s see.”

The boy held forth his hands. There was a large, freshly baked tart in each.

“So you’ve snitched these from the bakehouse, have you? Come up here, and we’ll consider your punishment.” Klann scooped him up into his arms with a grunt. “Yes, such fine tarts could wither the integrity of a holy hermit, I should think. But your king is feeling magnanimous today. We’ll pardon your crime for the price of a bite from one of them.” And he exacted his price, grinning and nodding at the tiny fellow, who could but stare.

Klann set the boy down and sent him off with a pat on the rump, shaking a scolding finger at his popeyed retreat.

“These children will want for nothing anymore, Gorkin, be sure of that,” Klann said, tight-lipped. “This land is bounteous and secure—”

There came a sizzling of powder and a whump! from the ramparts at their right, followed by a pounding crash in the hills below the outer bailey. The castle troops had begun practicing the use of the mortars mounted in places on the allures. Klann surveyed the castle’s defenses: the formidable bombards, the mangonels for hurling stones into any siege party; the enormous cauldrons which could spew boiling oil and molten lead over whole companies. He walked through the middle bailey gatehouse, guards trailing behind him, and appraised the thick ashlar blocks that comprised the high walls, now displaying his coat-of-arms; observed the Llorm bowmen walking their posts behind the battlements’ croslets and arrow loops and atop wooden brattices, cut through in spots with holes for firing down onto besiegers; the sturdy casemates built into the base of the walls like bunkers; the nearly completed repair work being done on the drawbridge, torn loose during the castle occupation.

The bombard on the opposite wall blasted its charge in a high arc over the hills. From beyond the outer bailey came the bellowing roar of the cretin giant, Tumo, frightened by the blast. Soldiers on the walls laughed and pointed. Klann looked at the guards, and Gorkin chuckled nervously. Before a word was spoken a deep shadow stretched over the ward: They all looked up, breaths hitching at the sight of the wyvern, unfurling its massive wings in the tower battlement above their heads.

“No enemy shall ever assail us here,” Klann said at last. But his voice had quaked ever so slightly.

(don’t be so sure of yourself)

(never relax your vigilance never)

Klann shut his eyes and a trembling coursed through him. It passed presently.

“What do you think about our prospects, Gorkin?” he asked without looking at his edgy castellan.

“I believe you’re quite right, sire. Next time we’ll—”

“Stop agreeing with me because it’s what you think I wish to hear. Tell me what you think.”

Gorkin rolled his eyes groundward. “The astrologers have consulted the stars, and prospects are good for finding Akryllon next spring—”

“A plague on the astrologers!” Klann stormed. “Tell me what you think about our decision to stay here!”

The general’s form sagged visibly. “I—I must admit to some apprehension, milord. I don’t like this place. It masks something...foreboding. Already there’s been trouble—the Field Commander’s murder—the city seems restive—Have you seen the arrow stub? In the flying monster’s hide?” His voice had shrunk to a whisper.

Klann laughed. “Yes—and that’s good! Don’t look at me like that—I’m making good sense. I understand the guilty have paid the price. But this should be a grand territory for recruiting the kind of men we need, eh? Men who sally forth against monsters? No, you’re wrong, Gorkin. This is a fine place to stay, and here will come a turning point for us.”

He grew pensive, an ominous shadow darkening his features, moving the soldiers with him to unease.

“One more thrust—and we’ll be home—and nothing, nothing must stand in our way—”

(don’t pay it lip service do it pursue it)

(what else can be done?)

(nothing it is gone forever)

The king shuddered in such a way that Gorkin reached out to catch him lest he fall, but Klann waved him off.

A retainer appeared, seeking the king’s attendance on business broached by his counselors. But Klann dismissed them all, wishing to be alone—to the extent the mocking term could apply to him. Against his better judgment, General Gorkin sent the guards back to their duties and himself reluctantly turned to go.

“Gen-kori,” Klann called to him.

The castellan turned slowly, eyebrows uplifted. The Kunan term Klann had used was akin to saying “old-timer” or “longtime comrade.” It was an affectionate usage.

“My liege?”

“It was he at the boxing match?”

“So Captain Sianno said.”

Klann nodded and sent him off. A warm nostalgic rush filled the king on whom incident and legend had bestowed the attributive Invincible.

And then, as if out of nothing, the sorcerer Mord appeared at his side.

They stared at each other for a space, neither uttering a word even in greeting. Mord’s black marble eyes gleamed impassively from behind the gold filigreed mask.

“Remove that shaft from your beast’s hide,” Klann said without preamble. “It has an adverse effect on the troops’ morale.”

He walked off toward the gatehouse and back into the central ward as if the audience were ended, but Mord fell into step with him.

“Not so easily accomplished,” the sorcerer’s murky voice offered in reply. “But I shall do it when I can spare the time. I carry the reminder here.” He patted his abdomen, the same vicinity in which the arrow stub protruded from the wyvern’s underbelly.

They walked in silence through the gatehouse, emerging into the ward, out of earshot of any soldiers. The clamor of weapons practice continued. A small cluster of men gathered around an injured mercenary, whose clavicle had been broken in a fencing bout.

“Why can’t you use your power to heal injuries like that one?” Klann asked, pointing. “So much pain might be alleviated.”

“Not an easy task, correcting specific ills of the flesh. Spells of destruction are so much more simply wrought, and at far less cost to the worker.” Mord’s evil grin could be felt from behind his mask, though nothing could be seen through the tiny breathing holes.

Klann scowled, and the sorcerer lifted his hands in a mollifying gesture. “But of course, milord, if a man’s faith is strong enough, it may be translated into the mana necessary for healing. However, few men possess such faith.”

“Faith,” Klann intoned resignedly. He angled away from the scene, affecting regal nonchalance, hands clasped behind him. Mord walked a step to the rear, his gloved hands concealed inside the folds of his sleeves.

“So many men dead in Austria,” Klann said, shaking his head sadly. “After all concessions to ‘faith’ in your god were made, still their god was stronger. You disappoint me at times, Mord.”

“Mi-lord,” Mord minced, “you do me grave injustice. Have I not done all that you’ve commanded? Any shortcomings being directly attributable to lack of faith among your subjects? We’ve discussed this matter many times. My Master is implacable in this regard. He demands complete faith and unstinting devotion. Given these, the power he may impart to me is limitless. If you would but permit me the ritual human sacrifice I’ve suggested—”

“No!” Klann shot, then quickly regained composure and lowered his voice. “Don’t broach that subject again. It’s purest animal savagery. It was in allowing such foul dabblings that my father lost the throne of Akryllon. All I ask of you is that you assist me in regaining it. Your time of proof will soon be at hand. Next spring...yes, in the spring....” Klann waxed reflective, teeth gritted.

“I shall vindicate myself, have no fear,” Mord said airily. “But I really cannot understand your attitude toward sacrifice: You’ve never denied me subjects for my experiments in working at the charm of dividing.”

The king looked like a man who had swallowed an emetic. “That is...a different matter—how goes it?”

“Very well. Soon I shall be able to show you the result of my most recent progress. But there is another thing that troubles me now. This banquet—I must lodge my protest against it. These people are full of deceit and treachery. They’re stubborn and dangerous. They’ve already murdered your field commander and fired on my familiar. They’ll resist you at every turn and will try to undermine your purpose. Why coddle them like this? And releasing the families of Rorka’s men, who might well have served as hostages to bend them to your will, that was—”

“Enough!” Klann cried. Several heads turned in the ward, observers self-consciously returning to their tasks almost at once. This day would be well marked, for rare indeed were the king’s appearances among them, and rarer still his public displays of anger. “Enough,” he said again more calmly, his mood shifting eerily. “We remind you of your duties. We have more than enough effete counselors to question royal mandates. We have our reasons for what we do, and they are sufficient. Leave us now. You have your work.”

Klann’s face became a blank mask as he began strolling toward the central keep. Mord bowed to his back obsequiously.

“I beg your forgiveness, my liege. I presume too much. But in an effort to appease your anger, may I remind you that it was I who divined the existence of this place, provided the intelligence required for the planning of its invasion, and the power by which the deed was done?” Mord’s voice reflected his conviction that an unjust slight had been done him. “All with your sanction at the time,” he appended.

Klann’s face had a sullen set as he stopped and looked back at him. “True—for the most part. And even this has been tainted by sadness.” Mord’s head tilted at the cryptic statement.

“Begone now.”

Mord bowed in stately fashion and departed.

And in his melancholy Klann heard the voices of the Brethren well up within him. They were stirred to angry, confused counsel. And then he spotted Lady Thorvald, watching him from the veranda of the sweltering bakehouse. He cast her a hateful look. He was abruptly reminded of the mighty man of valor they had all loved and respected but whom only their brother had really known, the brother whose inconstant heart overawed the counsel of his spirit and his kin.

(kill her kill the bitch)

(forget it be done with it move ahead the purpose—that is all that matters anymore)

There came at last the murderous primitive cry of the shameful one, the tainted brother, and Klann could feel the flush of the blood-rage filling his brain. He shut his eyes and swooned as he fought for control of his faculties. And when he had regained control, he suppressed them. Gently. As only one who knows the forlorn feeling of such suppression would do. For they were he.

And he was Klann. And they were Klann.

And Klann was five.

Head bowed, hands clung limply behind him, the king who was called Invincible shuffled heavily into the keep, the pungent smells of mildew and damp rot greeting him from the interior.

* * * *

“Lottie Kovacs—and Richard—whatever are you doing in here!”

Genya lowered her voice in mid-sentence to avoid attracting attention to the narrow larder just off the immense castle kitchens wherein she had found the pair huddled together behind the bins. Hunkered down against the wall, Richard sat with arms folded about Lottie, whose head was buried in his shoulder. Genya stood over them, hands on hips, affecting a stern posture.

“Don’t the two of you have any sense at all? What if the king’s chief steward comes to the kitchens? Lord knows I’ve had trouble enough with him already. Hanba na vy!—shame on you!” She shook a finger at them. “You’re just lucky I’m in charge here and not someone else or you’d be—Lottie? What is it, dear?”

She knelt and laid a hand on the sobbing girl’s arm.

“Her father’s dead, Genya,” Richard whispered. “Killed by soldiers. Ferenc heard.”

“Oh, dear Lord,” Genya gasped. “Lottie—Lottie, I’m so sorry.”

Lottie raised her head to reveal a tear-stained face, red and puffy eyes. “Oh, Genya,” the girl moaned, “things were so wrong between us. I—I never realized how much I loved him. And now he’s gone. It’s my fault as much as anyone’s.”

“Lottie, don’t say that.”

Genya gazed at her helplessly, momentarily lost for words. Lottie’s sad, china-blue eyes stared vapidly. Her small, perpetually pouty lips were drawn and quivery. Mourning seemed to befit Lottie, who was Genya’s best friend and polar opposite. Their alliance was as likely as one between a proud mare and a humble tortoise. Lottie had hired on as a servant at Castle Lenska over her father’s protestations, mainly so that she might be near Richard, a baker, whom Papa Kovacs called “bun-brains,” which is all that need be said of their strained romantic situation.

Genya rose. “Now listen—Richard, you stay right here and comfort Lottie,” she said, shaking her finger officiously. “But only for a while. I’ll steer anyone from the larder as long as I can. If anybody comes from the bakehouse, I’ll put them off. Just pray the chief steward doesn’t poke his birdie beak in here, or I’ll have to bounce a salver off his skull! When you leave, leave separately, and quietly.” She smiled warmly, patted Lottie’s ash-blonde locks. “Be strong, dear. Soon we’ll be able to leave and you and Richard can begin a life together.”

She nodded curtly to Richard, puffed up her damp hair, and eased out into the steaming, noisy kitchen. At once she began calling out directions in a voice that was both commanding and pleasant.

“Nahlit sa! Nahlit sa! Hurry up! Tonight Papa Flavio comes, and if all goes well you’ll be home to see your families soon. The king is good and gracious, and I have his assurance from his very own royal lips!”

There was laughter and good cheer all about her, despite the hot and tedious work of preparing a banquet for hundreds. And Genya threw herself into the preparations lustily, lending a hand wherever one was needed. First she helped the Yeoman of the Pantry trundle out and count the silver gilt plates and utensils and lay out the trenchers on which meat would be placed.

The kitchen was huge: sixty feet long by thirty wide with a vaulted roof nearly forty feet high at its apex. On one wall were the cavernous fireplaces—eight feet high and twenty broad—in which cattle and oxen could be roasted whole. And Genya next joined a struggling party attempting to wrestle a side of beef into one of these. Donning a bloody apron, she provided the final push needed to hoist the carcass into position, and by the end of the task her infectious good humor had cheered them all.

She turned her attention to the central hearth slab, where the cooking fires were being lit for the smaller game, which would be roasted on spits turned by dogs in wheelhouses.

“Nahlit sa!” she enjoined, aiding the cooks and drudges in spitting pheasants and geese and capons. “And where are our whimpering turnspits?” Indeed, to see the hearth fires lit the dogs scurried off for cover, for they knew well the work that would soon fall to them. Genya sent scullions to drag the dogs to the wheels. Thick cooking aromas already permeated the withering kitchen heat as Genya brought from storage the ornate saltcellar that would be placed before the king. She filled it carefully and trundled it by cart through the corridors toward the great hall where the banquet would take place that night.

The saltcellar was of ivory, enameled over with the figures of lions. Standing a foot high on carven legs was the shallow dish that contained the precious salt. Over its top was the golden canopy that protected the ceremonially regarded seasoning. And as Genya pushed the cellar along, she suddenly caught sight of her reflection. She stopped and peered around her: no one in sight.

She raked and molded her dark curls into a semblance of casual charm with practiced fingers. Pinching her cherubic face to instill color, she puckered her red lips—which caused little change inasmuch as nature had set them in a pucker—and practiced a range of expressions, from coyly beguiling to stoically wounded, until they appeared convincingly unpracticed.

Lord, forgive me, but I’m so clever, she thought, her shoulders hunching to suppress a self-satisfied chuckle. But praised be for that, since someone has to be....

It had all been trying and frightening at first: the violent overthrow of Baron Rorka on that horrible night and the succession of King Klann; monsters and giants prowling the walls; soldiers parading throughout the castle. The servants had all been too frightened to do anything but cower in their chambers for a night and a day. Those with any backbone at all had been slaughtered with the Baron’s men, including the former chief steward. And Klann’s newly appointed chief was a nasty, spiteful, vulture-faced old viper. Between him and the proudly strutting Llorm regulars and the pompously demanding ladies of the court and that bastard captain who had grabbed at her, why—

But Genya’s anger had finally been stoked, and the lowly scullery maid had dared speak for all the servitors to King Klann himself, presenting their fears to him in a performance that required all her considerable guile. And not surprisingly (to her, at least) Klann had been won over by her charm. He had assured her of the servants’ safety and instructed the chief steward to lighten his approach. He had promised that they would be free to visit Vedun once the security quarantine could be lifted, and—best of all—had appointed Genya head of all the local servantry and his personal liaison to them!

His paternal interest in Genya was a great comfort to her, although it had aroused the jealousy of the ladies of court, some of whom from the beginning had found Genya’s voluptuous youth and vivaciousness a spur to their cattiness: Before the audience with Klann, for instance, the Lady Gorkin, wife of the castellan, had caught Genya in alleged idleness and sent her to the steamy kitchen for the unpleasant job of shelling eggs. It was all Genya could do to keep from blasting the haughty old wench with a few, just to see how such a fine lady would react to the shocking mess.

And then there was the red-headed virago Lady Thorvald, whom Genya had first supposed the queen, judging by her incessant doting on and flitting about the king. She turned out instead to be a kept-woman in whom Klann had lost interest. Her attentiveness on His Highness seemingly grew in direct proportion to his weariness of her. Genya, in her less charitable moments, thought of Thorvald as a dried-out old shrew who strove to stave off the advance of years with her mock-exotic displays of paint and feathers. She was the epitome of tacky ostentation.

“Such a pampered old puss!” Genya had said that morning to the chambermaid who had overheard that Lady Thorvald would not be in attendance at the banquet, complaining of one of her frequent “head ailments.”

Ah, well, Genya thought, steer clear and all’s well. All but that scary sorcerer, Mord, him and his hungry looks....

She shuddered to think of him and chased the thought. But then there came the reminder of Lottie’s murdered father and Genya suddenly wondered about the safety of her own parents in Vedun.

No. No, father would never dream of becoming involved in violence. Safe, sane, and sensible father—he and mother would be there when she came home, of that she was sure. She crossed herself and lipped a curt prayer to fortify her certainty.

Her last warm thought was reserved for Wilf. Darling Wilf. So strong, so stubborn. The only man she knew who had ever kept her thoughts from other men; the only one whose pride couldn’t be budged. How I miss you, my love! A whole week apart! But soon we’ll be together, and we’ll leave this mess, and Papa Garth won’t be able to do a thing about it—No, that’s wrong. I don’t want it to be like that. I do so want Herr Gundersen’s approval and love. There are those rare men like him, the ones whose expressed distrust of feminine wiles is genuine. They’re the hardest to win over. But—

Footsteps echoed along the corridor. She leaned over the saltcellar’s canopy and examined her bodice, adjusting its strings minutely to reveal the merest hint of titillating curvature. She experienced a pang of guilt at her shamelessness. She shut her eyes and pursed her lips a second, then crossed herself and pushed the cart forward toward the great hall.

I’m sorry, Lord, but that’s me. I need to feel in command. It must all work out—it must. It will. And as usual I’ll get what I wish.