Gonji: Red Blade from the East. T. C. Rypel

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.