long as he thought wise, watching him glance from the corpse of the man he’d dispatched to the blood-stained sword in his good hand and back again. Berenyi’s lips moved silently, and he licked them repeatedly as if their dryness defied the rain.
His first battlefield kill, Nagy realized. No smirk, no jest from the jocular Stefan Berenyi now.
Then Nagy’s usual impatience finally got the best of him.
“Old man’s still got what it takes, eh?” He cuffed Berenyi’s shoulder playfully, breaking the morbid spell.
“Hah,” Berenyi sputtered out of the corner of his mouth. “I had to finish him, old man.” His voice quavered, though he’d tried to sound bold.
Nagy allowed him that concession to his self-confidence, bobbing his head.
“Let’s get this place squared away, young pup.”
* * * *
His brief talk with Simon finished, Gonji climbed aboard the gelding behind Wilf, and they started back toward the squad of militiamen. He was fatigued from the long walk. Cold and benumbed internally.
What monstrous things are yet in store—?
“That man—” Wilf said over his shoulder. “He’s...Simon Sardonis, nicht wahr?”
Gonji nodded. “Hai.”
“The one who beat Ben-Draba to death at the square?”
“The same.”
“Is he...also...the one?”
“What do you mean?”
“The one you’ve sought—the Deathwind.”
Gonji pondered the question as they jounced along. Finally shook his head.
“I don’t know, Wilf. It doesn’t seem to matter. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that he’s....”
“Hai,” Gonji filled in, “a strange one, all-recht. Tralayn would have us believe that he’s your Deliverer. One man,” he appended for no reason in particular.
“Well, I don’t doubt her,” Wilf said seriously, mopping the rain that slanted into his face. “Having seen him, I’d believe just about anything.”
Gonji cocked an eyebrow, his memories spinning with the details of Simon’s sorcerous origin, as told by Tralayn. The tale of what he would become in two nights.
Werewolf....
“One shouldn’t be too gullible, my friend,” Gonji cautioned. “On the other hand...the world never ceases to surprise me. Expect nothing, accept what happens.”
Like a reviving agent, Gonji’s words seemed to awaken Wilf from a paralysis. He began to tremble.
“Some things you don’t accept.” Wilf’s words came thick with emotion. “Like a loved one—”
“You have no choice, Wilfred.”
“Ja! I do—that thing back there that used to be Phlegor—it came from the castle, didn’t it?”
“Hai, I suppose—”
“What the hell is happening at the castle by now? How many more people are like that? Gonji, I’ve got to get inside Castle Lenska—now!”
“Quiet,” Gonji commanded softly. “Now think: What good could you accomplish going off half-cocked and trying to rescue Genya from an entire castle garrison? Have you forgotten the giant?”
“I don’t care about—”
“Shh! How would we even get inside right now, with Klann’s force on the alert against insurgent action?” Gonji thought of something, his face clouding. “Did you have the tunnel to the castle collapsed as I ordered?”
Wilf sighed. “Ja, they did it, though I tried to make them leave it clear, in case....”
“Listen, Wilfred, your need is no more important than that of everyone else. We are either united in this effort or we are fodder for the invaders. If you compromise our unity of purpose, then you’re as expendable as Phlegor.”
Wilf blinked. “Sure,” he replied bitterly, “then you’d probably turn me in to Klann’s army, like you did Phlegor.”
Gonji was stung by the young smith’s reminder of how he had set Julian to watching Phlegor as a diversion. But he saw Wilf’s shoulders bunch as he added in a near whisper:
“I’m...sorry, Gonji. I didn’t mean—”
“What I meant was that Mord would love to have another subject to ply his evil magick on. Go off like a child in a tantrum and that’s how you’ll end up.”
Wilf nodded glumly. “What did he do to him...to Phlegor?”
Gonji shook his head. “It would be well to keep the news of his fate from the others, neh? Simon stayed back to bury him.”
“What happened to your horses?” Wilf asked.
“Mine met with an accident, and he didn’t have one. Did you find Tora for me?”
“Hai,” Wilf responded, bright-eyed and smiling. “He’s with the others we were trying to bring up when those rogues stopped us.”
They rounded the bend and could see in the murky distance the place where the brief action had occurred. There was no movement there now.
“They’re gone,” Wilf said in mild surprise.
“That’s good. Your shooting may bring more soldiers.” Gonji leaned over Wilf’s shoulder and scanned the road ahead. Seeing nothing threatening, he continued: “Quickly now, tell me what’s happened since yesterday.”
Wilf recounted the busy hours: the surreptitious movement of armament and supplies from the now unsalutary catacombs; the securing of Vedun by Klann’s troops; the beefing up of the city garrison; the restriction of movement to and from the city—Klann’s paranoia ran rampant now, as well it might; the systematic search throughout the city for Gonji (which amused the samurai no end; Julian’s discomfiture was a balm to his anguished spirit); and the surrender of the location of a weapons cache in the foothills by the now penitent and cooperative craft guildsmen.
Gonji received the news of the unblocking of the catacombs access tunnels with enthusiasm. The catacombs were yet of strategic usefulness. The southern valley tunnel had been unblocked to permit Gonji to journey to Simon’s cave. It had been reshaped to admit one horse and rider at a time. In addition, the northern foothill tunnel and the passage to the vestibule chamber that led up into the city had now been opened to allow humans through; however, creatures of unnatural size from Mord’s mystic arsenal would find it difficult to pass the formidable spiked redoubts constructed in some of the tunnel’s arches and adits.
“That’s good,” Gonji agreed. “I should have thought of it. Whose idea was it?”
“Michael’s.”
“Mmm. Encouraging to see that he’s in a military state of mind. We’ll need that. How is his leg?”
“Better, but he’ll limp, there’s no doubt. Lydia’s with child,” Wilf added matter-of-factly, forgetting it almost at once.
Gonji was struck by this news; the reality of the Benedettos’ marriage and its stumbling block to his desires was abruptly driven home with the unrelenting finality of a death sentence. He smiled crookedly, had to backtrack swiftly to catch up with Wilf’s train of thought.
“—pole-arms were dismantled and hafts were brought up separately from the weapon heads.”
“Eh? Oh—good idea, for ease of movement. Very clever.”
“Ja, that was Roric Amsgard’s. Then the armor, and the big weapons, and the really dangerous materiel—pistols,