him, spurting its noxious lifeblood. His horse, wildly galvanized to feel its burden lifted, had begun to surge away without him, laboring hard through the snows. He cursed and called its name, heard his own name called once or twice from mist-shrouded figures nearby. Scrabbling and digging through the path his horse had frantically beat, he regained its flank and fought astride though the gray destrier bucked and whinnied for fair, determined to dislodge him once and for all.
He searched out Buey’s figure, found him still among the living, caught a glimpse of Brett Jarret, nodding repeatedly just to his right and rear, clouds of desperate breath puffing about the French highwayman, amidst a fresh snow-swirl.
Buey made a tortuous path through virgin crust to anchor with them for strength. Just then they heard the pitiful wailing of Dalbert, the loquacious adventurer from St. Pons.
He was a barely recognizable figure in the veil of vaporous air to their left. It was not the flying vermin that had gotten him but something else. The dark shapes, their eyes glowing as pale and green as some well-avoided mold clinging to a wizard’s curing vat.
Dalbert’s screams sang of untold torture, his pleading both trenchant and vexing to Gonji in a way only a samurai could understand. It was dishonorable to allow one’s enemies such satisfaction and insulting to the warriors who were given to hear. Yet he felt sympathy for the man, who had survived so much only to suffer—what?
“Jesus-God,” Brett swore, “what are they doing to him?”
“Riding him,” came Buey’s confused, tearful voice.
Dalbert had ceased to scream. And it seemed as though one of the demons had mounted his back, enveloped him in its foul caress.
“Gonji,” sounded a voice much like Dalbert’s, though distorted, reverberating in a way that made the flesh crawl.
“Gonjiiiiiii! You did this to me, Gonji! Why did you let this happen to me? They want you now…They want yoooooouuu!”
Gonji raised the Sagami again, in impotent fury, as his mount stumbled, righted itself. More survivors gathered near, huddling together, weapons fisted in frozen hands, prepared for some awful final attack as predators howled in the distance.
He saw Corbeau. And Perigor. One-eyed Leone. Orozco. Two more French brigands. An Italian mercenary. One of Sergeant Villiers’ charges, bleeding from chest and leg. They drew courage from one another, fused their wills with glances of grim determination. And pressed on.
But Simon Sardonis was not among them.
In bewildered defiance, Gonji blared upward into the swarming fog: “Simon! I’ll be back, Simon!”
And then he remembered. The turning. The beginning of the retreat. Minutes— hours ago? Simon had been there, urging them to fight on. Simon had said something to him then. Words whose meaning had been jumbled by the constant ebb and flow of the ferocious struggle.
Forget me, Simon had said. You shall find only the corpse of the great golden wolf. Shi-kaze— Deathwind, samurai…
“Give me something to kill!” Buey was shouting, head snapping about in search of a focus for his hatred, halberd whizzing at nothing. Its broken shaft shook in his grasp. “ Come on , you filthy bastards! Come at us warm and living, or dead and twisted—I don’t give a shit! God, grant me something to kill —”
* * * *
Nightmares…
And the nauseating tang of blood…
* * * *
“He’s leaking again — where’s that goddamn barber-surgeon?”
Orozco…Carlo-san…
“What in God’s holy name did you see there, you poor wretches?”
Kuma-san…
* * * *
Spring came to Ostia in balmy drafts. Smothering warmth would hold the seaport city in a thrall of lethargy for days on end. Abruptly, the blistering sirocco would lash the sea inland in slanting sheets, dashing the languorous spell of comfort and security.
It was the rain that Gonji liked the best. It suited his entrenched mood and lent an atmosphere that imparted new
He searched out Buey’s figure, found him still among the living, caught a glimpse of Brett Jarret, nodding repeatedly just to his right and rear, clouds of desperate breath puffing about the French highwayman, amidst a fresh snow-swirl.
Buey made a tortuous path through virgin crust to anchor with them for strength. Just then they heard the pitiful wailing of Dalbert, the loquacious adventurer from St. Pons.
He was a barely recognizable figure in the veil of vaporous air to their left. It was not the flying vermin that had gotten him but something else. The dark shapes, their eyes glowing as pale and green as some well-avoided mold clinging to a wizard’s curing vat.
Dalbert’s screams sang of untold torture, his pleading both trenchant and vexing to Gonji in a way only a samurai could understand. It was dishonorable to allow one’s enemies such satisfaction and insulting to the warriors who were given to hear. Yet he felt sympathy for the man, who had survived so much only to suffer—what?
“Jesus-God,” Brett swore, “what are they doing to him?”
“Riding him,” came Buey’s confused, tearful voice.
Dalbert had ceased to scream. And it seemed as though one of the demons had mounted his back, enveloped him in its foul caress.
“Gonji,” sounded a voice much like Dalbert’s, though distorted, reverberating in a way that made the flesh crawl.
“Gonjiiiiiii! You did this to me, Gonji! Why did you let this happen to me? They want you now…They want yoooooouuu!”
Gonji raised the Sagami again, in impotent fury, as his mount stumbled, righted itself. More survivors gathered near, huddling together, weapons fisted in frozen hands, prepared for some awful final attack as predators howled in the distance.
He saw Corbeau. And Perigor. One-eyed Leone. Orozco. Two more French brigands. An Italian mercenary. One of Sergeant Villiers’ charges, bleeding from chest and leg. They drew courage from one another, fused their wills with glances of grim determination. And pressed on.
But Simon Sardonis was not among them.
In bewildered defiance, Gonji blared upward into the swarming fog: “Simon! I’ll be back, Simon!”
And then he remembered. The turning. The beginning of the retreat. Minutes— hours ago? Simon had been there, urging them to fight on. Simon had said something to him then. Words whose meaning had been jumbled by the constant ebb and flow of the ferocious struggle.
Forget me, Simon had said. You shall find only the corpse of the great golden wolf. Shi-kaze— Deathwind, samurai…
“Give me something to kill!” Buey was shouting, head snapping about in search of a focus for his hatred, halberd whizzing at nothing. Its broken shaft shook in his grasp. “ Come on , you filthy bastards! Come at us warm and living, or dead and twisted—I don’t give a shit! God, grant me something to kill —”
* * * *
Nightmares…
And the nauseating tang of blood…
* * * *
“He’s leaking again — where’s that goddamn barber-surgeon?”
Orozco…Carlo-san…
“What in God’s holy name did you see there, you poor wretches?”
Kuma-san…
* * * *
Spring came to Ostia in balmy drafts. Smothering warmth would hold the seaport city in a thrall of lethargy for days on end. Abruptly, the blistering sirocco would lash the sea inland in slanting sheets, dashing the languorous spell of comfort and security.
It was the rain that Gonji liked the best. It suited his entrenched mood and lent an atmosphere that imparted new
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