Gonji: The Soul Within the Steel: The Deathwind Trilogy, Book Two (42 page)

* * * *

While Simon’s mother carried him, her husband was murdered and she, abducted by a Satan-worshiping cult leader, a demonic agent who called himself Grimmolech. In a foul ritual the young woman was raped by the evil priest, effecting in her womb a
secondary
conception, an
energumen
, a bestial body and soul which would coexist with that of Simon. Rescued by priests led by Father Dobret and sheltered in a convent throughout her tormented pregnancy, the woman died giving birth during a full moon to a raging wolf-child—a
werewolf
—whose only apparent connection with humankind was its bipedal structure. But for the intervention of Dobret, the monks would have destroyed the unholy thing on first sight.

But in the morning, after Dobret had kept a prayerful vigil over the snarling whelp, it was transformed before his eyes—in a pitiable, painful wracking of its form—into a fair-haired child, strong and healthy, his only unnatural mark being a pure white cross that blazoned unmistakably in his left palm. This Dobret took as a sign of divine favor on the unfortunate innocent. The young priest named him Simon Sardonis—his human father’s given name coupled with a perverse surname that occurred to Dobret in a moment of anger that the Lord would permit so accursed a birth. He took the orphan in as a ward of the Church and raised him as a Christian.

Simon quickly evinced uncanny physical and intellectual prowess and a ready spirituality, but for the one night each month—the night of the full moon—when the energumen would again hold sway, its own wolfish appearance bursting through the human flesh in an agonizing transformation which, as described by Simon himself in relation to a strange primitive memory of his mother’s birth agonies, was akin to giving birth over the entire course of his body.

It was found that if the werewolf could be kept from killing and partaking of the flesh and blood of any warm-blooded creature on this night, he would be free of the savage spirit’s corporal takeover until the next full moon. But if he killed, the transformation would occur each night for the entire month, with the important exception that
he
, Simon, would then be in command of the taunting energumen’s awesome physical presence. Yet this was something he loathed, for its achievement meant that he had killed. Restrained by specially fashioned shackles during the full moon, he came to call this the Night of Chains.

When, on his twenty-first birthday, he was told the full tale of his shocking origin, Simon became embittered that God would so curse him. He left the monastery, obsessed with the vengeful notion of tracking down and destroying Grimmolech. Dobret journeyed with him, his sole confidant in the world of men, all the while endeavoring to steer Simon from this angry vendetta and into thoughts of the great purpose God must have meant for his incredible powers.

Dobret viewed him as an angry spirit who should be directed against the evil things of the night, the Wrath of God. But Simon could see himself only as an accursed soul, shunned by the world of men and animals alike, who could sense in him an inhuman strangeness even when he was in human guise. Throughout their itinerant years together Simon and Dobret had even found it difficult to find monasteries that would shelter them.

About a year ago their journey had brought them to Tralayn at Vedun. And although the monks at Holy Word refused to shelter Simon, regarding him as possessed by the demon that cohabited his body with his own soul, the outcast did find sympathetic acceptance by Flavio, Garth, Michael, and Michael’s younger brother, Mark, with whom he formed as close a friendship as any he had ever known, apart from the priest’s. Dobret convinced Simon that a spiritual respite would do them both good, a sabbatical during which Simon would study with Tralayn, searching the Scriptures and other ancient writings to try to shed light on his purpose.

Residing alone in a cave at the base of the wooded mountain slopes, shackled each full moon with heavy chains wrought by Garth, and released the following morning by the key carried to him by Mark, Simon had lived the last year on the fringe of the unsuspecting city of Vedun. But he had grown restless and frustrated with his fruitless study, and had been on the verge of leaving with Dobret to continue his quest, after the priest’s next monthly visit to Vedun. By now, however, he had doubtless gone for himself to Holy Word to discover the outrage that had been done, and it seemed clear from the reports of slaughtered Klann patrols that his vengefulness had been rekindled....

* * * *

Gonji began to laugh, an embittered, humorless sound. “You’re quite mad, woman, do you know that?” There was anger in his tone, and pain. He seemed bemused, victimized by the turnings of the cosmos.

She cast him a look filled with pity. “That’s...what Simon himself has also told me,” she replied tellingly. “I’m sorry...but it’s all quite true....”

Gonji spat. “Madwomen, fanatical priests—first Garth’s crazy story about Klann, and now....” He waved a hand aimlessly. “You people of Vedun are nothing but wild storytellers.” But then acceptance dawned, belief born of his own experiences with things supernatural, and he waxed bitter over the irony of his own quest. “Have I really come so far, wasted the years of my youth, in search of...a
monster?
”

“Do not judge him so harshly. He is the most tortured of men.” She closed her eyes and sighed expansively. “I rail at him when he reminds me of that, but I’m afraid it’s only too true.”

“Everyone has his pain,” Gonji said trenchantly. “That is karma. We must all bear it, each in his own way. Why should he think himself special?”

“His suffering is unique. He is a faithful follower of the Lord who is denied the exercising of his faith. The energumen clings to his soul like a leprous thing, taunts him incessantly within, channels its evil impulses into his every human weakness. He has killed many times under its influence, and the evil is not his alone; yet he bears the guilt as if it were. He can never be a man at peace with himself or his world.”

“You keep defending him—why?” Gonji snapped. “You all sheltered him, coddled him, suffered these—anti-social ways of his, and now he goes off on his own and places Klann’s sword at your throats. But you feel sorry for him.
Why?
”

“I pity him. We all do. And his potential as a soldier against supernatural evil is tremendous.”

Gonji snorted, struggling with his wrath, his loathing of the karma that had fallen to him. He found it difficult to think straight. “Do you think he’s the Deathwind?” he asked, a curious edge to his voice.

“I’m not sure. The alternative name of Grejkill springs from a Nordic legend of a man-beast believed in by certain northern folk. It tells of an icy devil-wind that accompanied the Grejkill’s birth. Dobret has said that when Simon was born in Burgundy a great wind almost tore the monastery from its stone foundation. Yet the Lord sent a great calm after the wind, and his mother died peacefully during—”

“
Iye
, Tralayn, I think you’re wrong about him,” Gonji cut in, abandoning his stoicism for a rare instance of self-pity. “I think that
I
am the Deathwind. My quest has been circular, as is all the cycle of life. I’ve been the fool. Seeking myself all the while, chasing after my own unreachable tail. Why haven’t I seen this before: Death-laden winds have certainly dogged my footsteps throughout this Europe of yours....” His words drifted off, and for a time they didn’t speak, Tralayn granting him space for his sullen ruminations.

They turned onto a trail Gonji recognized as one they’d used during the night of cavalry skirmish training.

“We practiced here the other night. In the rain.”

“
Ja
, you were very near to his cave,” she said. “He probably watched the entire exercise.”

“I hope he enjoyed the spectacle.”

Tralayn only smiled. From his effort at wry humor she deduced that he was coming to terms with his frustration and disappointment.

Tramping through fresh-scented pine forests, their horses’ hooves squelching in mud puddles and bogs formed by the recent rains, they neared the northern slopes of the Carpathians’ southern curve.

“Is he the beast these nights, then?” Gonji inquired, his face once again an impassive mask.

“Nein,”
the woman replied. “When Mark was captured he was bringing the key to
release
him.” She saw his expression of surprise. “
Ja
, he’s unusually gifted, even without the savage strength of the wolf-thing. His power is greater than any man’s. That is why he has wreaked havoc with Klann’s patrols, struck fear in their hearts. He can meld into shadows in the night. The elements, within a certain limited distance, seem to obey him, or at least to reflect his moods. Something even he cannot adequately explain. And his recuperative faculties are remarkable. Yet...I think he wishes at times that they were not. I’m afraid Simon longs for the peace of death.” She drew a deep breath. “I believe that, more than victory over these brigands, he wishes to go to the grave, taking along as many of them as he can....” She peered sidelong at the samurai. “Can you understand my meaning?”

Gonji looked from the prophetess to the trail ahead, his vision parting the way, at last forming a bridge between his own soul’s disquiet and that of the mysterious cave-dweller.

“
Hai.
I’ve known the feeling.”

They arrived at a glade overgrown with thick grasses and tangled weed. Facing them was a steep rocky slope matted with scrub and bramble. Their horses nickered but displayed no alarm. They dismounted.

“He may be here,” she whispered, listening to the unnatural stillness. Not a bird twittered in the enveloping treetops, nor did any land creature scurry in the underbrush.

“Or it may just be that we’ve scared the animals into cover ourselves. Where’s this cave?” He seated his swords properly, tightening his
obi.
Then he raked the twigs and pine needles from his hair and adjusted his topknot. Dusting himself off, he caught up with Tralayn, who was already padding through the soft grasses.

To Gonji, it appeared they must certainly be heading for a climb; there was nothing before them but a wall of rock thatched with vine and bramble. But then they reached the facing of the rocks, and Tralayn swept aside a fall of vines to reveal the hidden cave entrance. Gonji stopped and peered into the forbidding blackness. An inner cry of caution placed him on alert: Was this some sort of trap?
No, don’t be so suspicious.
Telling a story such as she just told was no way of lulling a victim into complacency.

Producing flint and tinder from her cloak, Tralayn struck fire to a torch in the entrance tunnel.

“Simon,” she called, “forgive me. You’ve made it necessary for us to break our solemn oath.”

A chill surged through the samurai to hear the words.
Cholera
, they treated him like a godling. But the fight....
Remember how he so easily
dealt with Ben-Draba. And those eyes—those inhuman silvery eyes....

“Come,” Tralayn said, motioning him into the cave.

Gonji followed her, breath held in check, hand on the hilt of the Sagami. They both exhaled as one. The cave was empty. Only the severe appointments of Simon’s habitation flared into view under the flambeau’s harsh light: a low oaken table and chair, two oil lamps, several books and scrolls and some scattered writing materials, an opened bedroll, some bundled clothing, a water bucket, and some foodstuffs.

Tralayn picked up a well-worn prayer manual. An almost mystical atmosphere prevailed in the cave, and Gonji avoided touching any of the man’s personal effects for no particular reason than the strangeness of it all.

“No, he hasn’t gone,” Tralayn said. “He stays, for his own selfish purpose, for vengeance.”

“Sometimes that’s as meaningful a duty as any.”

“No. Not for one raised by the teachings of the Christ.”

“Mmm. All right for an infidel samurai, though,
neh?
” he found himself probing, if only to hear her answer. But it was a discomfiting one.

“You have other reasons, and you know it. Your quest...you have friends now...and Helena—you care for her, don’t you?”

He swallowed.
Discretion.

“Hai....”

PART THREE

“LE ROI EST MORT!”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

There were no training sessions on the day of the foray into Zarnesti. The council decided it would be best for the populace to be in the city for that day’s banquet meeting with Klann. A dawn assembly of the militia was held in the main cavern, at which the final selection of volunteers for the raid would be made. But although the attack plan had been embraced lustily and the training for it was enthusiastic, the morning’s formation of the volunteer band was curiously tentative.

Everyone seemed to stand around and wait to see who would go first.